


Pretty Venom

by zanni_1 (zanni_scaramouche)



Series: Pretty Venom [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (Really) Minor Character Death, Age Difference, Anal Sex, Blood, Blood and Injury, Brief Arrest, Clothes Sharing, Criminal AU, D/s lite, Dirty Talk, Drug Dealer Stiles, Drug Dealer au, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Gang AU, Human AU, Hurt/Comfort, Illegal Activities, Less than a Pinch of Fake Dating, M/M, Mafia AU, Mentions of Corrupt Cops, Mentions of Prostitution, Mob AU, Mob boss Derek, More like Fake Ownership?, Non-Con Groping, Pet Names, Please See Notes for more on Non-Con touching, Possessive Derek, Praise Kink, Scott has a minor sexuality crisis, Size Difference, Slow Burn, Sprinkles of family fluff here and there, Violence, Vulgar Language, criminal activity, if ya squint sideways, just a smidge, tad bit of, too many hot chocolate mentions for a mob fic, we don’t get too into it, yeah idk where that came from either, yike
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:28:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 39,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25987411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zanni_scaramouche/pseuds/zanni_1
Summary: Derek Hale.A name better suited for a myth than a man. Like the name of the devil, people either whisper it in fear or laugh it off as fable.Cut it open and this city’s heart doesn’t bleed red. It’s snowy white, and it pulses in the tight grip of Lucifer himself.Drug Lord Derek, Dealer Stiles, and the importance of not scalding the milk.(Prologue is Optional)
Relationships: Allison Argent & Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: Pretty Venom [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1874905
Comments: 33
Kudos: 435





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Almost Tittled: “Stiles is an independent boy who doesn’t need no man, and Derek Hale can go fuck himself.”
> 
> This fic was an attempt to regain the use of purple pros with only a dash of success. I will keep working on that! What I do like about it is that it is finished, and therefore a masterpiece regardless of all other faults. Could have used a beta or another once over, but patience is not a virtue I practice.. 
> 
> Originally a Larry (1D) fic based on Prompt #37 from BLFF 2020. If you would rather read it as a Larry fic, wait until November when this is reposted as such under the title ‘Spoonful of Sugar’ (Prologue: Sugar Cube - already out now!) 
> 
> The prompt included 'Slow Burn' and thus... here we are. This is why I made a smutty prologue to water the crops before the draught ;) 
> 
> READ END OF FIC A/N FOR NOTE ON NON-CON TOUCHING (contains spoiler)

Stiles has never been in handcuffs before. Cold steel bites into his wrists and keeps his arms pinned at an awkward angle at his back. Like he supposes everyone does, he’s wondered if this would be a kink he could try out someday. He’s got a feeling that’s not going to happen if he’s in jail. 

“But I was pretty fast, ya gotta admit.”

There’s no response, not surprising when one wasn’t expected. His leg won't stop bouncing, a rhythmless tap on the mud mat below his beat up vans. He doesn’t need to look at the initials clumsily scrawled in marker along the once white sole, now dirt stained and faded from years on the ground, to list the names of every person he’s letting down. 

He puts on a wry smile, “C’mon, who doesn’t like a lil’ cardio early in the morning? Got my blood pumping, feeling a little frisky y’know? Can’t help it when you put me in cuffs like this, officer.”

“Shut it, Stilinski,” The copper driving the squad car calls through the grate. 

Stiles swallows and hangs his head. Humour isn’t going to get him out of this mess, and without it he doesn’t have any defence left. With bitten off nails he blindly pinches his own hand. The sharp sting is enough to pull his focus from the pounding of his heart. He doesn’t hyperventilate in the claustrophobic backseat of the police cruiser on it’s way to the precinct, but it’s a damn near thing. Rays of morning light pierce through the city buildings and flicker across his face. He keeps his eyes fixed on the sun, wondering how long it’ll be until he feels it again. 

The day starts with Stiles Stilinski stumbling over a cascading mountain of shoes in the doorway trying to find his own. Enough is enough. He picks up a pair at random and starts towards the dining room. 

“Stiles,” His dad sighs when his muddy work boots plomp down on top of whatever paperwork he’s trying to focus on. 

Stiles holds his ground.

“We have shoes, we have cubbies, the shoes go in the cubbies.” 

He demonstrates the motion with his hands, knowing he’s being condescending and not caring. He’s earned the right after repeating this conversation nearly once a month. 

His dad rolls his eyes and knocks the shoes to the ground. 

“You’ll have to remind me when you’re the owner of the house.” 

Stiles rolls his eyes back and chooses his battles. 

“Whatever ya say pops,” he leans over to ruffle his dad's hair fondly and hops out of reach when he’s swatted at. 

“I’ll be back to make dinner, no jumping the gun to use the barbeque unless it’s for veggies, y’know the rules!” 

He talks while spinning back to the mess of shoes to find his own. As he’s bent over a text comes in on his phone, a stupid meme from Allison he laughs at far too hard. Shoes finally on his feet, Stiles looks up to hear his dad still grumbling down the hall. 

Stiles hangs in the open doorway and interrupts his dad mid curse, “Love ya!” 

“Love ya, kid,” his dad calls back just as the door shuts behind him. 

It's the second best part of Stiles’ day. The first best is always coming home. 

The morning is a watercolour periwinkle. An overcast sunrise breaches the horizon and while the west side of the world remains caught in murky night. Crisp air nips at his fingertips and the back of his neck where the collar of his jacket gapes. 

There’s a string of numbers on the disposable phone in his hand. He memorises the digits and deletes the text, pocketing the burner phone in his jeans. Habitually he reaches into his jacket and pulls up a map on his personal cell. With the pads of his fingers he manually drags it around to manually search for his destination, not enough of an idiot to actually type in the address, then zooms out enough to note the best route from his two years experience cycling through the city. It’ll be a good ride. Minimal hills and empty roads at this early hour. 

His personal slides easily into the hidden inside pocket of his jacket. The frigid morning has already turned his fingers clumsy and he fumbles with the buttons. The bike at his side was the first thing he’d invested in when he started this job and he’s never been more thankful for an object in his life. He jumps on it now to officially start another day of work. 

Drug running wasn’t his first choice, not even his twentieth choice, but Stiles has had time to find satisfaction with his current career choice. Today's address is an apartment building with more moss than paint on it’s exterior. Cracked stones make a wobbly garden path to slanted stairs he wouldn’t trust with a feather. 

Luckily he doesn’t need to test them. What he’s looking for is tucked under one of the many loose boards. He slings familiar rucksack straps over his shoulders and the satisfying thump of its weight on his back tells him his books are still there. Always a pleasant find. Some days they were pulled out by whoever filled the bag each night, but more often than not they weren’t touched. 

He makes quick work of jumping into his regular route. The city is starting to wake now, cars honking in annoyance and an army of fresh pressed clothing marches self-importantly towards their forty story glass prisons. The best way to do something illegal? Act like it’s not. People see what they know, and what they know are bike couriers flitting through city streets, young kids like Stiles with helmet head and manila envelopes. 

They never glance twice when his scruffed converse walk in and out of buildings alongside their jimmy-choos and brogues. They’re too preoccupied tapping away on their screens, probably complaining about the barista giving them soy milk when they clearly demanded almond, to take note of his existence. There are names on the packages Stiles drops, but they never match the ones on the plaques of offices he skirts by. Fake names and fake addresses, fake courier fake packages. The only thing not fake? The drugs. 

Stiles might have felt bad if he’d been dealing to people clearly choosing an addiction over food on the table, but he has a hard time feeling any remorse when most of the people he drops for are wearing watches worth more than the house his dad is still paying a mortgage on. The money isn’t part of his business. Most of the time he has no idea what he’s actually dropping or how much it’s going for. Given the amount he gets just for being the smallest of cogs in the machine, he’s pretty sure small countries could be fed with the money made by whoevers on top. 

Stiles doesn’t know, doesn’t need to know, doesn’t want to know. He picks up, drops off, and collects his cash at the end of the week. He prefers it that way. The less he knows about the dark underbelly of the city, the more he can pretend he’s not part of it

Halfway through his morning he figures it’s time for a caffeine pick-me-up on what is shaping up to be a pleasantly uneventful day. There’s a cafe around the corner that serves wicked tea latte’s and Stiles isn’t ashamed to order two extra shots of vanilla. One accidental sip of Allison’s cup a few weeks ago and he’s been hooked on it. 

There’s a backlog of customers waiting for their drinks so he wanders, easily distracted by the tacky tourist stall nearby. A gaggle of plastic momentos just waiting to clog up the ocean weighs down spinning racks. Stiles fiddles with a pair of bubblegum pink sunnies because he’s forgotten his at home. Making a face to his personal phone he sends a selfie to Allison, pushing the glasses up so he can see the screen. 

“Double vanilla latte for Tom!” 

Stiles twists around at the call. The barista is already busy with the next drink, but Stiles eyes the beautiful steaming cup waiting for him. 

“Thief!” 

Stiles looks up to scan the area for the vandal. His eyes flit around the usual morning crowd of pedestrians stumbling around like mind-numb zombies. Finally they land on the teller of the kiosk pointing over Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles spins to see no one, then realises he’s the one being pointed at. Every hair on his body stands on end. 

“Thief! Police!” The clerk continues in heavily accented english. 

People walking about start hesitating, eager for a spectacle. 

Stiles holds up his hands and forces a smile, “Hey, man. Just a mistake, no harm.” 

He reaches for the glasses still propped in his head. He’d completely forgotten about them until this moment and he holds them out in offering. The man doesn’t move to take them, just keeps yelling and pointing, Stiles isn’t sure they even speak the same language at this point. Then Stiles notices the phone in the clerks hand has already been dialed and his heart ticks up. 

“Look, it was a mistake. Take your glasses.” Stiles growls. 

He jams the cheap plastic arms together to toss the shades on the counter and back away, latte be damned. It almost works. Turning around he spots a heavily belted officer. Sweat instantly breaks out. Stiles steps several feet away from the incoming police, trying not to look too suspicious but that’s really fucking hard to do when his lungs are seizing. 

The second time around his strained smile is more of a grimace, “Forgot the glasses on my head, honest. Already gave them back, we’re good.”

The officer keeps walking towards him in that cocky way they always do, like their hands resting on their gear belt is supposed to be intimidating. Usually it’s nothing more than a pompous power tactic Stiles scoffs at, but it’s working now.

“You won't mind if we search your bag then.” The officer in front says like it’s not a question. 

Stiles sure as hell minds. There are neat little packages of party favours in there, not to mention the fucking half pound of cocaine. Some hindbrain reaction surges through him and before he’s even made a decision he’s running. 

He knows every single post box for a twenty block radius and he makes it two blocks over and one up to dump the contents of his rucksack. Cops can’t open sealed mail, but he’s not taking the chance. Thank fuck for contigency plans.

“Owie!” 

Stiles has got his bag already slung back onto his shoulders when his head snaps to the little boy several feet away. A sob of epic proportions is starting up, most likely due to the gnarly scrape on his knee from tripping on the curb. Stiles crouches down to see how bad the damage is. 

“Hey bud, you’re okay. You must be a superhero, they’re always getting hurt aren't they? Think you can be a hero for me? Who’s your favourite?”

The kid looks up with round watery eyes and a wavering lip, speaking through hiccups, “S-spiderman.”

“No way! Mine too! Where’s your-” 

He’s grabbed from behind without warning. The kid starts wailing as handcuffs slam onto Stiles’ wrists, their click signalling the end of his life. 

His saving grace are the books he had at the bottom of his bag. Their yellowed pages and torn covers are enough weight that the cops have no idea he was carrying anything else. He plays the idiot, says blind fear was why he ran. They barely have reason to process him, but they do, and Stiles figures it must be a slow day. It still takes them hours.

When he says he's a dishwasher at a restaurant they don’t ask which one. When he says he was getting a coffee they don’t ask where he was coming or going. When they ask where he lives they don’t ask if he lives alone. They are bored, but clearly not overly motivated to actually do their job. 

If they’d asked he could say he had no diploma and couldn’t hold down a job longer than a week due to his… vibrant personality. He could say his single father had decade old medical bills from his late wife, an unpaid mortgage, and a car in constant repair. So when Scott from his old lacrosse team said he knew a guy who knew a guy? Stiles jumped on it.

There’s one thing he can’t explain easily. The damn phone. He’s lucky they didn’t find his personal tucked safely in the lining of his jacket, but he really should have dumped the burner with the bag. He would have if he hadn’t been caught off guard by the kid, and by the time he’d thought of it he was already tucked into the squad car. It’s not a surprise the tech department has no trouble pulling up messages from the past month. 

“Care to explain the texts received here?” 

There’s a slim sheet of paper with a printed string of numbers on the scratched metal table between them. Every text Stiles has memorised and forgotten in the past month since he switched out phones. He was due for another switch in two days, but of course this couldn’t have happened with a clean SIM card. He tries his best to play up the nervous idiot card. It’s not hard considering it’s pretty close to the truth. Two years doing this job and he’s only ever had one contact, the bane of his existence, Lahey. 

“I dunno,” he plays with his hair, glad they took the cuffs off once he’d been seated in the room, “the phone was a friends first, said he didn’t need it anymore and gave it to me when mine broke.” 

The officer rests casually in a metal chair twin to the one Stiles is perched on. He’s painted in tones of grey, faded in the way only middle age and decades of shitty coffee can achieve.

“Do you have a name for your friend?” 

“Sam.” Stiles bullshits easily. 

The guy crosses his arms with a leading look. “Last name?” 

Stiles shrugs, using the small sliver of willpower he has to keep his hands still in his lap. 

“I dunno, we’re not close. Can’t even give you a number for him, now can I?” 

The officer narrows his eyes at Stiles like it’s a little too convenient and Stiles holds back a smirk. You bet it’s fucking convenient. The officer, Harris or Hank, Stiles isn't really interested in knowing which, leans forward with a heavy sigh. Good God, Stiles thinks with raised eyebrows, the man might actually be doing the job he’s paid to do. 

“Judging by the previous correspondents we have reason to suspect the owner of this device was involved in criminal activity, possibly tied to the likes of Blake or Hale.”

Stiles automatically grimaces, unable to hold back his full body shiver of revulsion at the names. The Blakes have everything in the surrounding districts while Hale has his meaty paws on the city centre proper. The Blakes were a full family syndicate known for having a toe dipped in every municipality the eye could see. Hale was a conceited ass. 

Stiles rolls his eyes up to meet the officer with a scowl twisting his face. 

“We weren’t exactly close, you know what I mean? But I doubt he has anything to do with fucking trash like that.”

The officer inclines his head, a warning sign that Stiles has been too careless. 

“Have you had any interactions with these groups or their associates?” 

Stiles sits back in his chair. He’s gotten too heated for someone uninvolved, despite his personal vendetta with the man having nothing to do with his job. Stiles reels in the venomous tone of his voice with a shrug not quite as casual as it should be to get away with.

“Nah, I heard enough about it on the tv. Shit stain needing to be wiped off the earth. Speaking of which, you got a toilet around here or am I stuck with the privilege of a bucket?”

Harris/Hank/Green Eggs & Ham, whatever the fuck, grunts and leads him out. When they return the questions wind down until it’s painless for Stiles to stumble through them like a young kid in the wrong place at the wrong time. The longer he’s there the more Stiles struggles to keep from bouncing around the blank walls. The fear cramping his stomach since the cuffs locked was never for the coppers. It’s for the moment they shove his belongings back into his hands and spit him onto the street. 

Lahey is already there, waiting. Stiles spots his shadowed figure across the street, recognizable only from a sparse handful of meetings they’ve had over the years. The man kicks off from the side of a building and jerks his head for Stiles to follow. There’s no other option. Every step away from the precinct is a step closer to his own grave. 

Several feet ahead Lahey’s leather clad shoulders disappear at the mouth of an alley. Stiles doesn’t have the chance to turn into it before he’s being forcefully dragged and shoved against the brick. 

“What do they have?”

Stiles winces through the pain radiating from the back of his skull.

“It was a fluke, some paranoid ass thought I was shoplifting.” All he gets is the heavier press of Lahey’s forearm on his neck so he hurries his words. “Dumped the packages in the post. They hacked the phone and got pickup locations for the last month,” he wheezes as fast as his straining lungs allow. 

“That’s it?” Lahey growls in his face. 

Stiles doesn’t know how this guy expects him to keep talking without oxygen. His choking must clue the asshole in because the weight on his neck lifts just enough for Stiles to sputter. 

“I swear half the time they were calling me Kyle. They’re duller than bottom-of-the-box crayons.” 

Lahey peers at him like he’s taking his time to decide if Stiles is telling the truth, but he’s most likely just enjoying the power trip. Dickwad. Not a second too soon he steps back enough for Stiles’ feet to finally reacquaint themselves with the ground. Stiles nearly keels over with the lungful of air he gasps down. Every alley smells the same, and the scent of filth on his tongue sends him reeling back to memories he has to physically shake his head out of. 

“Look, we have a good system going,” he tries to reason when he can speak. He can’t afford to lose this job. 

Lahey glares at him with the golden eyes of a riled panther. 

“Thirty locations burned and a full day's worth of supply gone. You think that’s okay? Think you’re worth more than that?”

“Been told I’m worth a fair amount once or twice. Priceless, even,” Stiles goes for a shot at levity while he tugs his jacket back into place.

Stiles is too focused on straightening himself out to notice the fist flying at him. Pain explodes across his left temple, his hand coming to the point of contact seconds too late. Well, if that’s how it’s gonna go. He keeps his face tilted down to hide the spark of retribution in his eyes because he’s never been one to pass the chance of making a proper beating worth it. 

Faster than light Stiles strikes with a hook of his own, catching Lahey’s jaw and knocking him off balance. It’s satisfying as fuck. 

Stiles has hated the duche since the moment his pretentious face sneered Stiles’ way. It was an instant mutual dislike. Stiles shakes his fist out and brings it to a loose block while he thinks of how to get another good hit in. It’s not his first rodeo, not when he’d always been the smallest kid on the team and sometimes being fast just didn’t cut it. He advances until Lahey unfolds himself and there’s a glint in his hand. A knife. 

Stiles can’t afford to die. 

“Sanctuary.” 

The world freezes. The word physically fills the space between them like it’s been slashed across the comic panel of this moment with red paint. Lahey’s face morphs into something as sharp and dangerous as the blade he holds. 

“Did he tell you that?” Lahey asks with a clenched jaw, fist tight around the knife Stiles doesn’t dare look away from. 

“Sanctuary.” Stiles repeats in a demand, a scorching rage growing within him for the word on his lips. The one word he swore he would never say. 

Lahey curses under his breath and flicks the knife shut to tuck it away. Rough hands shove Stiles towards the mouth of the alley. 

“You’re fucked the second he sees you. No difference to me who’s gun the bullet comes from.”

Lahey keeps one hand clenched around Stiles’ bicep until they reach a sleek black car neatly parallel parked half a block away. Stiles isn’t wearing handcuffs when he’s thrown into the backseat for the second time that day, but he can’t shake the feeling of a noose cinching around his neck. He doesn’t really know what to expect, doesn’t really know what he’s even started, he’s simply blindly played the last card he has. 

Scott got him the job. Two years ago, when Stiles had a black eye from an unfortunate case of saying what he really thought at his previous job, Scott had tentatively offered to speak to someone. Someone who knew someone who might have a job that wasn’t strictly above board, but would bring in quick cash. Professional lacrosse players could barely take a tylenol without approval, but the b-list celebrities and clingy socialites they mingled with tended to have a taste for little pills and powder. 

Scott had leaned in close the day Stiles met Lahey for the first time and said, “If they threaten to cut your balls off, you wait until the knife is inches from your skin before you say it. Promise Stiles, emergencies only.”

Stiles had been cocky. He’d thought if he kept his head down and did his job there would never be a need to use the stupid word. Now he realises he’s been naive to think he could ever escape repercussions of the job, legal or otherwise.  
Hindsight is always 20/20.

Focussing on the winding streets they pass allows Stiles to quell the low grade panic singing through his veins. He makes note of each street name flying by only to realise they’re still in the city and, in fact, are going deeper into it. The world goes black as they sink into an underground tunnel. A greasy hand tightens around Stiles’ intestines the further they go down, so deep pressure builds in his ears. Lahey’s steely gaze in the rear view mirror betrays nothing. 

The car comes nose to nose with a cement wall, only for the wall to slide open and reveal a large barren cement room, endless empty space swallowed by shadows around the edges. Stiles has no way of knowing the true size of it. They come to a stop. Stiles frowns as a second car glides through the opening in the wall, he hadn’t seen anyone behind them the entire time they’d been underground. 

His concern is forgotten about when unforgiving hands drag him from the backseat. Stiles might be scrappy, but he’s not a full on trained mobster like his opponent who probably grew up cage fighting dogs, fuck. The ground meets him with a slam hello. Before he can react, the shiny car he’d noticed earlier floats to a stop an arms reach from his sprawled limbs. 

Solid boots stride three powerful steps. They grind against the ground as the wearer crouches close. Stiles can’t see because his arms are covering his face to fight off the searing LED headlamps trying to scorch his retinas. Prone on the gritty cement he’s defenceless against the bullet he’s expecting, but instinct has a way of brushing away reason. His heart rate could power the sun. 

Silence goads Stiles to cautiously uncurl enough to squint past harsh light. What he sees is his nightmare personified. Big hazel eyes bore into him. Stiles has to tamp down the absurd urge to laugh at the cruel ways of fate. He doesn’t dare look away once their eyes catch, he’d never give him the pleasure. Fuck this man. Fuck Derek Hale and everything he stands for. 

Finally the enigma sighs and tilts his head. The boots Stiles heard peek from under crisply pressed trousers. This was a man who did not get his hands dirty. In fact his large hands were neatly manicured. Spotless. 

“Messy,” the man tsks in a voice so deep the word is nearly buried. 

Stiles snarls in return. Like this man wasn’t the reason half this city was a mess. 

Stiles’ fingers scrape against the ground as he presses into it to lift himself. He burns with hatred at the sight of the pristine gloss of the vehicle contrasted with the fine hairs along Hale's upper lip he hasn’t bothered to shave. He’s probably the type of person who never waits for anything, who never has to hear the word no, who is responsible to no one. Stiles can see it in the meticulous way he dresses paired with the careless way he styles his hair. An eclectic combination of immaculate attention to detail and deliberate thoughtlessness. What a grand display of inflated ego. 

“Your fuckin’ mess now. What are you gonna do ‘bout it?” He spits with every ounce of anger in him. 

Hale's eyes narrow with annoyance. He taps a heavily ringed finger against the trousers threatening to burst with the flex of his thick thighs. Stiles nearly says more, the only thing halting his tongue is the last strand of rationality reminding him of how necessary this man’s mercy was for not only Stiles’ survival, but his family’s. He bites his lips so hard copper pools in his mouth. 

In a fluid move Hale captures Stiles’ jaw in a harsh hold and forces him to keep eye contact. His thumb digs deep into Stiles’ split lip until Stiles is unable to hold back the flinch of pain. Dark eyes void of emotion scrutinize him. 

“Do better.”

Stiles doesn’t know if it’s a response to his question or an order. It feels like both. There’s no chance to say more before Hale thrusts his face out of his hand. Without another glance he slides into the car he arrived in, slipping out of the garage without another sound. 

As soon as he’s standing, Lahey manhandles Stiles so roughly he narrowly misses slamming his head on the doorway of the car they took here. Stiles keeps both palms flat against the seat in an attempt to ease the unsettled feeling whirling inside him, like his organs have been rearranged in the short time he’s spent underground. His teeth keep toying with the ragged edges of his lip. 

Stiles has kept himself purposefully ignorant of the workings of his job. It was so easy, so non-fuss, that he’d sometimes forget how much went on before the product reached his hands. He was a cog in the machine and he’d never once thought about who was pulling the crank. To know it was Hale was, for lack of better words, a bitter pill to swallow. 

It’s a tad disconcerting to be dropped at his doorstep. Stiles never gave any of his information to anyone. And yeah, he hadn’t fooled himself into assuming it meant they didn’t know more than he was comfortable with. Still. There was something to be said about plausible deniability. He tosses a bitter glance to Lahey in the mirror.

The locks audibly unlock. Stiles takes the hint.

Once Lahey’s car has sped away, Stiles gathers himself on the doorstep and tries to take a steadying breath. The sun is low on the west horizon. It casts peaceful golden rays through the home filled streets. From the side it blinds him in one eye and casts the other half of him in shadow. 

From inside he hears the muted telly playing an old baseball game his dad’s probably sleeping in front of. Stiles presses his forehead against the front door and soaks in the peace. He’s lucky to still have a job, lucky to be back home, lucky to be alive. Breathing remains a struggle no matter how many times he repeats this to himself. Air is hard to come by when the other end of the noose around his neck is firmly placed in the palm of Derek Hale.

The next time the sun rises Stiles is out of the house. He hadn’t been able to slip past his sleepy dad curled around a cup of coffee. If it was before or after his shift Stiles wasn’t certain. 

“What’s got you up so early?” 

Stiles froze with his sweater half on. Feeling like a kid in trouble he kept his face to the wall. There was a nasty bruise blooming on his face this morning.

“No rest for the wicked,” he yanked the hem of his hoodie down and flipped up the hood. “Have a good day Dad,” he rushed over his shoulder and left without looking back, the door clicking closed quietly behind him.

A bad taste fills his mouth the longer he walks. Walks, because his bike was left behind at the cafe across town. There’s the slimmest of chances it’s still there, but he won’t be free to check until much later. Today’s first mission is to pick up a fresh phone and to get the day's pick up spot. After a dip into a sketchy twenty-four hour knockoff electronics store he texts the number Lahey had purposefully muttered quickly and quietly in the car the day before. Stiles has only his sharp ears to thank for catching it correctly. 

The response is instant. Stiles stares at the string of coordinates on the new disposable with the heavy weight of resentment. They expect him to show up wherever he’s sent and do whatever he’s told like a fox in a maze. The worst part is having only himself to blame, but what twenty year old doesn’t jump at the chance to make quick and easy money? 

Stupid. He’s an idiot. He’d been able to talk himself into it with justifications, albeit before he knew the top of the chain he’d unknowingly linked himself to was Derek Hale. Sooner or later he’s either going behind bars for forteen to life or he won't be able to talk his way out of the next knife to the gut. 

He stares so long at the phone the screen goes black. He’s left looking at a dim reflection of his own eyes, bloodshot from his restless night. The thing is, he was young and impulsive when he signed up for this job, and when it comes down to it nothing’s changed. So he sends a text before he thinks better of it. Two simple words. 

_I quit._

He blows out a shaky breath. It’s possible he’s just asked for a bullet to lodge itself in his head. Only time will tell though, so he forces himself to move. With a pinch of satisfaction he tosses the mobile and it’s card into seperate bins on his walk back to the neighbourhood he came from. 

Maybe that’ll be it. Maybe he’s naive, but it’s not like he even knows anything to snitch if he wanted to, so maybe he can go home and actually pick up a dishwashing job until he figures out how to make enough money on the right side of the law. This doesn’t have to be the end of everything. 

His house is in the early stages of waking when he walks back in the door. His dad has already gone either to bed or work. Stiles sits on his front step and dials a number he’s meant to call for a while. 

“Stiles!” Allison giggles through the line. 

“Hey Ally,” Stiles smiles instantly at the sound of his friend’s happiness. “You got time before work? Think I could use a coffee.” 

“Hmmm… are you wearing a sweater?” 

Stiles rolls his eyes. If he ever thought being single would save him from lending out his clothes, he was dead wrong. He’s half convinced he needs to lock up his hoodies to make them stop disappearing every time he hangs out with Ally or Kira, or sometimes even Malia if she is in a mood.

“Yeah yeah, you just like me for my cotton.” 

They make plans to meet halfway, his house not too far from her apartment and the best coffee place on the way to her work. She makes a show of running up to him and squeezing around his shoulders tightly. He hugs her back, the whiff of her perfume making him realise just how long it’s been since they’ve hung out. 

He twirls her around twice before placing her on her feet, both chuckling as they stumble with dizziness. 

“You’re paying, mister 'canceled three times in a row.’” Allison nudges him in the rib. Ah, yeah. That’s probably why then. “Have you tried the double vanilla yet?” 

Stiles looks down to hide his face and hopes she doesn’t hear the strain in his voice, “Not yet. Today sounds like a good day for it.” 

“You’re gonna love it! Oh shit, wait here!” 

Allison runs off before Stiles can ask. He follows her half-run-half-skipping form to a blond across the street. Ah, Erica. The long time crush. She worked at the restaurant next to the cafe he and Allison frequented, perhaps specifically so Allison could run into her like this. A mischievous smile forms as he starts towards the two, planning what to say to lightly rile Allison but also gain Erica’s favour. 

“Stiles.” The dark voice strikes him still.

Like a nightmare scene Stiles turns in slow motion. Parked precariously along the curb amongst a row of ordinary wilting houses is the sleek black car from yesterday. Lounging in the back seat behind tinted designer glasses is Derek Hale. 

“Get in.”

Stiles’ heart hammers. Allison hasn’t noticed yet. 

“Not supposed to talk to strangers.” He panders for time. 

“Stiles.” 

Allison’s finally turned and noticed while Erica says something to her. She looks between Stiles and the car with a frown. Stiles hopes it’s not too obvious how fucking terrified he is. He needs his friends as far away from this man as possible. 

With an apologetic grimace he lifts a hand in the universal ‘phone me’ symbol and ignores the weight of eyes on his back until Allison nods, still obviously confused. 

She’s still looking when he turns away. Entering the car is like crawling into his own coffin. The leather is butter soft and smells like money. 

He nearly misses the moment the streets begin to blur around them as four wheels navigate smoothly over cracked asphalt. Stiles thumbs the glossy interior handle and window controls, petty satisfaction from how his prints dull their shine. Ignoring every instinct in him he presses deep into the seat and spreads out to replicate the relaxed position he usually takes up on his sofa. When he looks to the older man beside him he tries to hide the shock of seeing the shades have disappeared to reveal piercing eyes. 

Stiles doesn’t know a lot about this man. No one does. Like the devil people either whisper his name in fear or laugh it off as fable. A man who owns the city.

“Do you shoot me in the fancy garage or do I get stuffed in the trunk?”

Stiles meets those poisonous eyes without hesitation. He’s scared shitless, but there’s no way he’ll let it show. If his last moments are living in spite of Derek Hale, they are moments well spent. 

For his part Hale keeps his face blank for so long Stiles assumes he’s not going to answer. Then the small corner of Hale's lip lifts. Stiles might imagine it. 

“I’m too fond of this car to let death tarnish it. Leaves a smell.” He drawls.

Stiles snorts and perhaps trails into a giggle on the hysterical side, but he’s probably going to be dead within the hour so he should be excused for his behaviour. Hale remains impassive. 

“Who told you the word?” 

“Fat fucking chance, dude.” 

Stiles shakes his head at the question. He’s kept Scott’s name out of it all so far, and he’d be damned to drag in his best friend now. 

Hale narrows his eyes, but he doesn’t look surprised by Stiles' refusal. Stiles is surprised. The initial spike of fear he’d felt at Hale's appearance faded once Allison was out of sight. He’s left feeling oddly brash considering his company. 

“Do you have a plan?” 

Stiles furrows his brow, not following whatever the words are trying to imply. 

“If you quit-”

“I do quit.” Stiles corrects

“How will you support your family?” Hale continues without pause for the interruption. 

“Not your concern, is it?” Stiles spits, bristling at the mere mention of his family coming from the likes of Derek Hale. 

“The interest on those medical bills must be expensive,” Hale muses like he’s ever had to worry about money in his life, “Your father can’t work security jobs forever, can he?”

“Shut your dirty mouth,” Stiles seethes, fists clenched on his thighs to keep them from doing something really stupid like punching Derek Shit Hale in his smarmy face. 

Under a meticulous look over Stiles squirm. He feels like a maths problem Hale is looking to resolve. 

“I have a proposition.” Hale says, sounding like a bad film script. 

Stiles purses his lips, “I’m not interested.”

“If you listen, you get to return home. If not, there are cars I like less.” 

Stiles breathes through his nose in an effort to keep his body from bouncing out of itself with anxiety. Next to him Hale lounges like he wasn’t threatening to end Stiles’ life. 

With a stiff jaw Stiles admits what he hadn’t wanted to say to Lahey the day before. 

“The police know my face.” 

Hale rolls his fingers so his rings rub against each other, not for the first time. It’s bloody annoying because their shine keeps drawing Stiles’ attention to his hand, which is placed obnoxiously close to the man’s crotch. 

“I believe they have a pretty portrait of myself as well. What’s this matter?” 

Stiles angles towards him, wondering if the man’s being obtuse on purpose. 

“I can’t keep working the street without eventually picking up a tail. I could shake a few, but there’s no way to lose all of them indefinitely and still get the job done on time.” He uses his hands as he explains, like he used to when talking Scott through his homework. 

“Don’t you remember? You quit. This is a new job,” Hale smirks with thick lips. He’s shaved today. “Keep up.” 

A hand pats him on the knee, full of condescension.

Stiles’ nails dig into the skin of his palms from clenching hard enough to keep them planted in his own lap. He’s being played with, an amusing toy for Hale to waste time on. Surely the Cocaine King had better things to be doing than personally pissing Stiles off. 

“What’s this grand plan, then?” He huffs and glares through the window, trying and failing not to sound like a petulant child. 

Hale tilts his head and clicks his tongue, “You have to agree to it first.”

Stiles’ muscles grow tenser with every word to come from his mouth. 

“Don’t have a choice now do I?” Stiles scowls. 

“We all have choices.”

“Fuckin’ a,” A shock of dark laughter bursts out of Stiles. “Only people without hard choices say that.”

Every trace of humour vanishes from Hale's face as he leans into Stiles’ space, “My choice was not to kill you yesterday, would you like me to make a different one today?”

Stiles is not intimidated. He openly glares to prove it. If Hale wanted him dead he’d be fucking dead, which means he’s still considered worth more alive. It’s shitty, but it’s something. 

Stiles licks his bottom lip and chews on it in thought.

“What’s the difference between today and tomorrow? I take this job only so you can conveniently swoop in with another one, sprinkling in death threats to keep me at it until the end of time?” 

Hale's eyes flick over his tense form like he’s seeing him for the first time.

“You’re not as simple as you look, Stiles,” Stiles rolls his eyes. Hale needs to work on his compliments if that was meant to soften him towards taking the bait. “Someone did the job before you, someone new will do it after. It’ll pay well enough to keep your family going until you find something legal, no repeats. You have my word.” 

Slim gratification ran down Stiles’ spine knowing he was right about this fucker never getting his hands anywhere near the dirty work. Asking why the previous person was no longer fulfilling their duties probably wouldn’t endear Stiles to taking them on. With every atom of his being Stiles wants to spit in this bastard's face and take his chances jumping from the speeding car. He can’t. Hale has seen Allison, knows his dad, and without his regular income they’ll be hard pressed to make it to the end of this month. It’s not a choice. 

“You don’t come near my family. I don’t want anyone near the house again.” 

“You’re not in the position to make demands, sweetheart.” The hand that pat his knee never left, and now it squeezes Stiles’ thigh in warning. 

Stiles shrugs and sits back in a show of confidence he doesn’t quite feel. 

“Then what are you waiting for? ‘Cause otherwise I ‘aint doing it, so you may as well run me over on your way back to town.” 

Hale remains stone faced. Their icy eye contact lasts so long Stiles truly thinks he’s going to be shoved from the car. Instead he witnesses Hale smile for the first time. Something dangerous and satisfied, the roundness of the mans’ cheeks at odds with his wolves' teeth. His fingers relax but continue to sear a hole in Stiles’ jeans. With the other he makes a motion at the driver through the shaded partition. 

“You’ll need a tailor. I have an excellent recommendation.”

The tailor is phenomenal. Stiles goes from a shaggy punk in ripped jeans and a tattered t-shirt to something resembling posh. The black fabric wraps around him with precision he’s never known, the waist of his blazer cinched perfectly with a single button over a crisp white shirt.. 

He doesn’t know how much it cost, honestly doesn’t give a shit since it goes on Hale's account without protest. Stiles kind of hates it. Kind of hates everything about the situation, but he especially hates wearing clothes the jackass picked out for him. Yet three days after stuffing the garment bag in his closet, Stiles finds himself standing by the open door of Derek Hale's batmobile of a car feeling like a child playing pretend. 

Hale's legs are spread wide on the back bench, his head lolled in disinterest while his broad hands toy with his rings. The way he pauses with pursed lips when he sees Stiles sends a rush of dread through him with the impression that he’s already fucked up. Then Hale smooths a hand down his own thigh and tilts his head to continue his assessment. A small nod tells Stiles to get on with it. Part of him wants to stubbornly stay standing and make the man use his words, but a bigger part, the part that knows he’d be more likely to use a gun than his words, pushes Stiles forward into the backseat. 

Stiles adjusts his pants when they ride too high to be comfortable on the goods and runs a hand through his tousled hair he spent too long styling. Not for any particular reason, mind. A second after he’s settled in the seat he jumps at the heavy hand on his thigh.

“You’ll have to do better than that, darling,” Hale warns in his deep timbre. 

Stiles chews the inside of his cheek to hold back an automatic curse and plasters on an obnoxiously pleasant smile. There was a time he did more for less. He rests his hand on top of Hale's so their fingers lay threaded on his leg. 

“Won’t be an issue.”

He relaxes into the hold, trying to ignore the way Hale's thumb strokes over the fine linen of his trousers. 

“Remember the names and rates, no favours to those not on the list. Check in every hour on the hour. We leave when I say.”

Stiles dips his chin in acknowledgement before letting his head fall back in the plush seat and roll towards the heavily tinted window. There’s a thick blanket of clouds overhead soaking up every ounce of light. No stars tonight. 

“Stiles, am I understood?” A squeeze on his thigh reinforces the stern tone. Stiles doesn’t reward it with his attention. 

“I know how to do my job.” 

The man scoffs with humour, “Not well, apparently.”

“The guy practically entrapped me, it had nothing to do with the job.” Stiles snaps, indignant and forgetting to keep his head turned. Hale remains immaculate as ever beside him. The twitch of a smirk disappears as he grows serious. 

“Your job is avoiding trouble.” 

Stiles bites his lip to keep in the curses he wants to throw back, his jaw tight and face pinched with effort. Hale's mouth splits into a shark's grin the longer he watches the effort. 

“This is going to be fun, little fox. Enjoy yourself.” 

Stiles is quick to return his gaze to the window, hopefully hiding the flinch. 

Mingling with high society and providing their poison for the evening was surely to be far from enjoyable, but Hale was paying him well enough for it. There were worse ways to earn money. Running drugs on the street was easy. Blend in with a crowd, act like you belong wherever you stand out most, and keep your head down. Pushing pills at a party shouldn’t be much different. In theory. 

“Will you be enjoying yourself?” Stiles asks and realises his Dad’s right, he needs to work on not letting his attitude leak so easily into his voice.

“I always do.” Hale leans close enough for his cologne to overwhelm Stiles’ space. Stiles’ eyebrows furrow, wondering what the madman is up to and once again losing his chance to act stoic when curiosity pulls his eyes sideways. There are more buttons undone than closed on the man’s shirt and it gapes enough to see the muscled expanse of his chest. Annoying. Stiles flicks his eyes up to watch him speak. “If you’re asking if I’ll be sampling the answer is no, I don’t have a taste for it. I’d be greatly disappointed to discover you do.” 

Stiles rolls his eyes at the obtuse question flirting with the tone of a warning. 

“Not for me.”

He’d been a dumb kid when he started dealing, but he wasn’t a complete moron. Rule number one of drug running: don’t do drugs. Hale doesn’t need to worry about a single crumb of his supply disappearing. 

Picking up the product is uneventful, an exchange of hands and little more. Stiles doesn’t even get out of the car, a fact he’s grateful for because Lahey’s face still makes him want to pummel something. There’s no rucksack this time. Everything disappears neatly into his well tailored clothes. 

The car rolls to a grand estate with a drive longer than the road Stiles lives on. 

Hale leans in to speak by his ear. “I’ll mark you as mine before business begins. Don’t frown all night, it’ll spoil my mood.” 

He leans further into Stiles’ space until their faces nearly meet. For an absurd second Stiles thinks the madman is gunning for a kiss, then his door opens and he realises Hale had been reaching for the handle. Stiles scowls at himself only to be blindsided when Hale roughly catches his jaw and bites into his mouth. It doesn’t last long enough for Stiles to tear away, Hale breaking the kiss off as suddenly as he started it, but the hand on Stiles’ jaw keeps him close enough to feel the other man’s breath. 

“The sharks are already circling, Stiles. Don’t let them smell blood.” 

He withdraws. Stiles checks his facial expression from disgust into benign, feeling the invisible eyes Hale warns of through the open door. During the run down of the job he’d been informed of how his survival might rely solely on his connection to Hale. No one would try too hard to cut a deal with him, no one would jump him for his supply, and no one would try to pull him if they knew he was there as Derek Hale's boy. 

Of course the best way to inform the crowd would be clear visuals with little room for misunderstandings. Stiles will have to rinse his mouth out with bleach by the time he gets home. Possibly even bathe in it if the older man’s hands come anywhere near his body. 

Stiles steps out of the car and forces himself not to bristle at being steered through the manor. A hand is confidently placed on the small of his back like a cattle brand. Music vibrates the air before he can properly hear it. By the time they step into the back garden the bass travels through his feet and into his bones. 

A crystalline pool and several hundred people glimmer in the night. He feels inexplicably like it’s the first day of school and he’s being told to make friends with the kids who pushed him into the dirt. Everyone here wears no less than a thousand pounds of shimmering jewellery and silk. Hale fits right in.

They travel through the scattered crowd to an outdoor lounge where Hale dominates the middle of a massive bench curved around a stone fire, one arm sprawled along the back and the other laid possessively over Stiles’ crossed legs. As much as Stiles despises everything these people stand for, as much as every inch of him brushing against the monster beside him burns, he has a role to play. 

He’s almost able to lose himself in meaningless flirtations with attractive people if he lets himself think of it like part in a film. He leans into Hale's shoulder while pretty people come and fawn over the man. A few of them even ply for Stiles’ attention with nothing more substantial than playful banter that makes his intestines curdle. No one asks who he is, where he’s from, or what he does. He’s a piece of decor, just another ring on Hale's finger. This isn’t Stiles laughing at a vapid woman’s simple joke, this isn’t Stiles tilting his head to the side to allow the largest drug mogul to bite the shell of his ear like it’s not the most vile thing he’s ever felt. This is a nameless character the audience will forget the moment he’s offscreen.

“How’s this? Derek Fucking Hale at my house and no one thinks to tell?” A severe voice rings out. 

Stiles feels the shift in Hale's demeanor through the eight (he wasn’t counting) different places they are touching. Fear cinches in Stiles’ gut when he first thinks the outraged woman leaning over the sofa is about to strangle Hale, leaving Stiles royally fucked, but she only reaches out to press a scarlet kiss against Hale's cheek and run pointed nails through his dark hair. For his part Hale's face lights up like he’s been sleeping and is only now waking to occupy his body. 

“Lydia,” he greets, his deep voice breathless like he’s starstruck.

Stiles scrutinises the newcomer floating around to their side of the sofa and landing next to them, wondering what sort of person would have someone like Hale smiling like a child. The intruding woman’s hair is an elegant river of strawberry blond waves, everything about her contemporary cream pant suit screaming immaculate. Her face was made to be smirking, and it does so now. 

“What’s a lady have to do to find you?” She leans sideways on the bench to face Hale, and the man angles to mimic her.. Up close she looks harmless in the way rich city kids were, straight teeth matching their bleached white shoes, an ego inflated by family money. Nothing Stiles hasn’t seen a million times before. 

“I’ll always come for you, Lydia.”

Stiles narrows his eyes at the salacious smile on Hale's face, unsure if he’s reading too far into the words or if there’s something more going on between them. They’re on the same level of ‘call me Daddy’ attraction. Stiles could picture it, but he adamantly stomps the thought down before it can fully solidify. 

“Settle down petal, you’ve got your hands full,” Lydia’s eyes cut pointedly to Stiles. For the first time of the night he feels seen. There’s power behind Lydia’s gaze, a cunning to her she hid well behind her previously cheerful demeanour. The easy way she flits between jovial and threatening is moderately terrifying. 

Hale hums and runs his hand along Stiles’ leg for the hundredth time. Stiles isn't sure he’s okay with how used to the motion he’s getting. Hale holds the side of Stiles’ face to pull him into a kiss just as viscous as the last. Stiles can’t hide the instant reaction to freeze and pull away, but Hale's hand keeps him locked long enough to remember his place and sink into it. 

There’s nothing particularly wrong with kissing Hale in an abstract sense, he’s a good kisser with a strong tongue and Stiles imagines he’s well aware of it, which makes it more insufferable when they part and Stiles is panting from lack of oxygen and Hale remains as serine as the ocean on a clear summer's day. 

“Stiles was going to stretch his legs,” Hale smiles at Stiles’ glare. 

Without another look at the two, Stiles takes his cue to leave. He didn’t want to stay, but being ordered around will never not rub him the wrong way. Once standing he decides the first thing he’s going to do is find the fucking restroom and pray its stocked with a gallon of mouthwash. 

Like bees to a honeypot, he barely makes it five steps before people begin to twist towards him. Slipping on a smile Stiles let’s himself do what he’s actually there to do. Time starts to blur and Stiles travels in small circles without much direction, always another person tugging at his elbow before his feet get too far. On the hour he retraces his steps and walks past the outdoor lounge. Hale and Lydia remain as he left them, a clear bubble of space around them maintained by Hale's severely slanted eyebrows anytime someone so much as stumbles too close. 

People are scared of him. Stiles sees it in the way their eyes are constantly drawn to him and yet they no longer approach as they had earlier, Lydia being the only one completely unaffected. Their heads bend close together to discuss killing babies or whatever business they hold. With his features cast in a serious grimace Hale looks more like the murderous man Stiles met last week in the carpark. When he catches the man’s eyes they share a small nod and Stiles spins off to keep circling. 

Half the night has passed by the time he actually makes it to the restroom. There’s no mouthwash. Instead Stiles uses a hand towel to wipe down his neck and ears and eventually his entire face with handsoap. It wipes away Hale's hands but it does nothing to alleviate the traces of eyes he’s felt all over him all night. He keeps the towel pressed to his face and releases a drawn out groan in place of the yell he wants to let loose. 

He’s been in a lot of uncomfortable situations, looked down on by a lot of people. Nothing comes close to how he feels tonight. There may as well be ‘Property of D.H.’ written in bold black marker across his skin. The worst part, the absolute worst of it, is that once upon a time Stiles would have killed for that to be true. 

Finish the night. That’s all he needs to do. Get through this one night and tomorrow he will turn the page and be rid of Derek Fucking Hale for the rest of his life. 

After sorting his face into something pleasant he pushes through the door only to collide with a fine suit. 

“Woah there,” long fingered hands steady him by the biceps and Stiles looks up to see blue. “Well hello cutie, what’s a thing like you doing in a place like this?” 

Stiles furrows his brows, wondering how the man can tell he doesn’t fit in when he’s pretty sure they’re wearing the same shoes. He doesn’t get a chance to ask before the taller man steps in too close for comfort. 

“Now there’s no way you came here on your own, who’s the lucky son of a bitch?” He asks with a smile too wide and a grip too tight. Ah, Stiles is more than familiar with this sort of asshole.

“Fuck off,” Stiles shoves him in the chest more as a warning than a real attempt to brush past him, but the guy catches his wrist.

He’s lean and but not tall, Stiles feels confident he could push him off if he needs to, but this feels a little too close to ‘trouble’ and the last thing he needs is for word of it to get back to Hale. He’s caught wondering how long he’ll go along with whatever the guy is looking for before truly fighting back. The guy keeps blabbing with a smile like they’re just having a laugh. 

“Theo? Liam? Chris?” 

Stiles’ fist tightens in the man’s hold and he throws it down in an attempt to shake the vice-like fingers, but the guy is smart enough to anticipate it and strong enough to slam the hand into the wall above Stiles’ head to keep him pinned. Stiles has to crane his neck to keep eye contact and it’s this that pisses him off the most. 

“Feisty, don’t tell me it’s Lydia herself? Poor Liam. Oh, unless you’re here for both of them?” He winks as his hips press into Stiles’. 

The obnoxious weight of the man is revolting in a drastically different way than Hale's touch. The comparison makes Stiles realise the one name he needs to say to get this man to back off. Fuck that, though. He doesn’t need to belong to someone. 

“Hey,” a new voice turns their attention to the end of the hall. A rosy cheeked brunette stands in a white vest and dark trousers. No way he’s older than Stiles, yet his bare arms are clearly defined and his abdomen is flat and solid under thin cotton. “Derek’s not gonna like that.” 

“You taking the piss, Liam? Hale hasn’t brought someone since ‘she who must not be named’,” The guy leering above Stiles scowls but makes no move to step away. Stiles knocks his head back against the wall. Great, he’ll just wait here for this conversation to end to finish getting mauled. 

The kid, Liam, grimaces. “Your funeral, Jackson.” 

He keeps walking wherever he’s off to half dressed, leaving this Jackson guy to laugh down to Stiles like he wants to share the joke, “Can you imagine? D bringing you?”

“Hilarious.” Stiles intones. 

He tries to keep his face straight but a flicker of amusement crosses his mind. He wonders if Hale will kill this guy, not out of some duty to Stiles but more to keep his reputation up. Stiles kinda hopes he’ll get to witness it. The guy leans in closer until he freezes, his hand halfway up Stiles’ thigh exactly where Hale had been stroking earlier. His eyes balloon.

“Shit, you’re not serious. Derek Hale? This tall, scowl and eyebrows?” 

Stiles shrugs and presses into the hand, tilts his head with a coy smile. 

“What do ya think?” 

Jackson jumps away like he’s been burned with so much force he hits the wall across the corridor. 

“Jesus,” he mutters. He straightens the buttons of his suit and smooths a hand over his slicked hair, “I need a drink.” 

He stalks away without another glance. Stiles deflates. After a second to regroup he reaches down into the custom tailored trousers and adjusts the literal packets of merchandise he has tucked along the inseam of his leg. When he emerges from the hall Liam is sprawled at the bottom of a grand curving staircase like he owns the place. Under the glow of a car sized chandelier and backed by solid mahogany panelling the boy fills the role of historical-romance-protagonist much better than Stiles ever could.

Stiles bites his lip and puts the bits of information he’s gained together. The party and estate belong to Lydia, and apparently so does Liam. Stiles isn’t going to thank him, so he’s not sure what the kid is looking for when he unfolds himself to stand by Stiles with unfiltered concern painted on his face. 

“You alright?” 

“Fine.” Stiles snarks and brushes his hair out of the way. Then he remembers he’s not here as Stiles Stilinski, he’s here as an employee, so he clears his throat and slides back on the cheeky smile he wears like a favourite flannel. “Is there anything I can provide for you?” 

Liam blushes and wow, he’s adorable. Won't even meet Stiles’ eyes. 

“No, uh, you're… “ he licks full pink lips and Stiles hopes he looks that good when he does it himself, “how is he? Derek?” Stiles scrunches his face in confusion for the second time within five minutes. The kid ducks so their faces are a little closer as he speaks, “It’s odd seeing someone on him after the whole Jennifer thing, and Lydia said you… ” He looks leadingly at Stiles with big round cow eyes. 

The earnesty makes him look so heartbreakingly young that Stiles questions his initial assessment. Surely Stiles doesn’t look this young. He’s thrown a bit from playing his part, not sure how he wants the kid to finish the sentence but desperate to know. Stiles waits until the silence has gone on so long he has to admit defeat.

With an awkward jerk Stiles rubs at his nose. “I'm only here for a paycheck, dude. You won't see me after tonight.” 

Liam shrugs it off like he’s none too bothered about the answer, some of his warmth dimming as the moment breaks. “Well, you’re late for your check in. D is looking for you.” 

The words further ruin Stiles’ mood. Right, never forget the ball and chain. 

“Thanks,” Stiles mutters and stalks off towards the garden. 

The noise has risen as the night grows old, people splashing into the pool now that half of them have talked with Stiles. He sticks to the outskirts and plans to walk by as he’s done several times before, but as soon as Hale's eyes hook into him he knows he’s in shit. From across the fire Hale lowers his chin and motions with one hand for Stiles to come close. Steps filled with trepidation Stiles navigates his way to Hale's side. 

He sits as he normally would with anyone else, a healthy spot of space between them, only to realise his mistake when Hale's eyes narrow. With a little sigh Stiles shuffles over until their legs are aligned together, leaning into Hale's outstretched arm but keeping his eyes on the blaze in the firepit. The warm press of his body makes Stiles’ gut twist and the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, Stiles more acutely aware than ever of the undeniable difference between placing himself knowingly in Hale's hold and the suffocating slime of being caught in Jackson’s unyielding grasp. 

“Where were you?” The man asks without inflection.

“In the middle of something.”

“You should have walked away.” 

Stiles lips purse to hold back the truth. Hale's stern eyes bore into his profile, but Stiles resolutely keeps his gaze forward on the blaze. No use getting himself in shit when the night is almost over. 

“Yeah, should have. Won't happen again.” Stiles grinds out with a huff. 

There’s silence. Stiles tries to distract himself with the flames and not the devil on his shoulder. 

“No. It won’t.” Hale uses a finger to turn Stiles’ chin and Stiles forces his features to remain a blank slate when faced with the intensity of his ire, “Nor will you lie to me again. Jackson Whittemore has been removed from the property.” 

Stiles stifles an eye roll. No doubt Liam snitched. Hale was such a prick to send someone after him like he’d assumed Stiles was automatically in a situation he couldn’t have handled on his own. 

His lips press thin in indignation. “Is that all?”

“No.” 

Hale curls around him with his mouth right at Stiles’ ear, his hand sliding up the inseam of Stiles’ trousers, then sliding to feel his abdomen in a smooth press. His touch is hot through Stiles’ thin layers. 

“We’ve been busy, haven't we little fox?” 

Stiles is too focussed controlling his body to answer. 

Hale doesn’t wait for one, leaving a small kiss below Stiles’ ear before he relaxes back into the plush sofa. Stiles doesn’t waste a second to stand with a deep scowl set on his face. He’s angry because he hadn’t been trying to keep himself from pulling away, but the very opposite. All Hale had done was feel over the places silk pockets line Stiles’ outfit. It was nothing more than a show and business, like the rest of him. 

Stiles tugs his blazer straight and lets himself be reeled into another conversation he’ll forget the moment it’s over. Show and business. He can do that. 

Things wind down in stages. First the pool is abandoned, then anyone with an ink of self-respect turns in, and left are only those riding the wave between crashing hard and lasting to sunrise in euphoria. Stiles finds himself wandering more than talking. The last two times he’s seen Derek the man had moved inside to a parlour. In the same room he saw the Liam kid again, or rather the back of Liam’s head with Lydia’s hand in it while they sucked face. The woman only wears one ring, Stiles noted. Much more tasteful than Derek’s fistful. 

Stiles’ new well soled shoes echo on the tile of a dark solarium. Glass walls and ceiling allow him to view the remnants of the garden party from a distance and the velvet black sky. He stops in the centre of the room to take a moment to himself, pleasantly chilled and eerily peaceful in the dark. 

Almost done. If he keeps his head on for another handful of hours he’ll be home in time to get his dad breakfast. He might even attempt those Mickey Mouse pancakes Allison ribs him on because, despite best efforts, they always turn out unfortunately phallic looking. 

His elbow is yanked and Stiles stumbles to spin around. It’s hard to see with only the garden's distant glow, but it’s enough to make out the unmistakable glint of a gun in his face. 

“So you’re her replacement?” Hisses a woman with dark features glaring at him from behind the barrel. 

“What?” Stiles says dumbly, caught in panic as he tries to comprehend the situation.

The woman scowls and when Stiles steps back she follows. Stiles’ brain tries to tell him this is too absurd to be real, that this isn’t Stiles about to die.

“She should have finished him sooner. Luckily I have the stomach for it.” 

Stiles raises his hands in a placating show still walking backwards over the checker tiled floor, a lowly pawn on the retreat. “Look, I don’t know what-”

“You’re a pig, just like Hale. A dirty pig that deserves to rot in the mud.” She snarls. 

There is nothing to compare the sound of a bullet to. Instant and earsplitting, over as quick as it happens. A pane of glass shatters. Belatedly Stiles ducks and covers his head from the spray of glass. Every nerve ending in his body tingles as it tries to sort out why he doesn’t feel like he’s been shot. Blinking open his eyes he finds the woman sprawled on the floor with a dark halo pooling beneath her. 

From the cracked door a sliver of light slashes across Hale's hard set face. Something dangerous sparks in his dark eyes and fills Stiles with paralyzing terror. Slowly the man bends to tuck a slim gun into the holster strapped to his ankle, when he’s done it’s completely hidden by the trim of his trousers. As he straightens to full height his hands come to his hips.

The bubble of the moment pops and reality sets in.

“What the fuck!” Stiles gestures wildly at the body, “Derek. What the fuck happens now?” 

And he might hate having to rely on Derek swooping in like this to save him, but he’s not the one with experience making dead bodies disappear. The gunshot had been loud, the wall of glass even louder. Surely people heard it. Surely people would notice when this woman didn’t return from wherever the hell she came from. 

Completely out of depth Stiles feels helpless for the first time in a long time. Having a group made a majority of women meant it has never been his turn to have a meltdown, but now he’s not in the place to take charge and he’s owed a proper tantrum of his own. A person is dead. Dead!

Derek’s eyes have lost the burning they’d held moments before. Now he looks no more troubled than if a tea cup slipped from his hands and cracked on the floor. Unfortunate, a little unpleasant, but overall not a big fuss. He holds up a thick ringed finger and points it at Stiles. 

“Don’t move. I need to apologize to Lydia for staining her floor.” 

He disappears before Stiles’ eyes have even finished widening, not even giving Stiles the luxury of rebuttal. Leaving, because that’s all he’s good at. What. A. Bastard. 

“What the fuck.” Stiles says once more with feeling. 

Obviously there’s nothing Stiles would like more than to spend some quality time sitting in the dark with the dead woman who’d pulled a gun on him. Through the open panel of recently missing glass he hears party noises rolling on. 

He’s only just settled on the edge of a crooked lounge chair when a silhouette clumsily stumbles through the door. It’s Liam, a little more rosy cheeked and tousled, otherwise the same. 

His eyes widen at the sight of the shining glass and blood and hey, look at that, a body.

“Oh shit, Stiles! I’m sorry, this sucks.” 

Stiles snorts. “The hell do you have to be sorry for?”

Was he the one going around shooting people? Was he the one screwing over Stiles' life? 

“I don’t… I don’t know. Habit.” Liam admits, still catching his breath and flustered from wherever he’s come from, no doubt on orders to make sure Stiles doesn’t run off. 

Stiles narrows his eyes. This kid plays the innocent act well, but he’s not having to hide the shaking of his fingers like Stiles is. He looks uncomfortable, not distraught. No doubt he’s familiar with this world of criminal activity if he’s been hanging off of Lydia and his high rolling life for any period of time. Behind his blown irises he has information Stiles is in desperate need of and he’s not above using Liam’s inheberation to his advantage.

“Who’s Jennifer?” Stiles cuts straight to the chase, keen on hurrying through this conversation before Derek returns. 

Liam winces and avoids looking at Stiles straight on. 

“Ah, she was sorta like, y’know…” He scratches the back of his head, the outline of his defined bicep a pleasing sight, “Kinda like Derek’s lover. She was around for a while before he found out her deal and then…” He swallows and flickers a glance at Stiles, “He’s got a temper, ya’know?”

“Found out?”

Liam shrugs, not quite looking at the body when he gestures to it. “Yeah she… well she was a Blake. She was gonna kill him once she had enough information to take over. That’s her sister.” 

“Oh.” Oh. 

Stiles glances at the face down woman and feels the blood drain from his body. Oh fuck. Derek basically killed a Capulet to his Montague. 

Not a second later the man in question returns with Lydia by his side, striding in with a hard look on her face. The woman is considerably more wrinkled than she had been at the beginning of the night and whistles low. Stiles is confused when he sees Lydia looking up instead of down. 

“Jesus, you couldn’t have aimed away from the window? Do you have any idea how old the glass is?” 

“Couldn’t be helped.” Derek frowns like he’s genuinely apologetic about breaking some glass. Unbelievable. 

Lydia grumbles and turns to pull out a mobile while Liam goes to her. Stiles wonders if they’re aware of how they look, of how Lydia’s hand instinctively tucks itself under the hem of Liam’s shirt, how Liam immediately bends and twists to mold himself around the shorter woman. A vivid display of familiarity and possession. Stiles is unsettled by it and his eyes drift away from them only to land on the glowering reason he’s in this mess. 

Stiles pushes himself to his feet and crosses his arms. He is done with this. All of this. He needs to go crawl into his bed for a long nap and wake up forgetting everything he’s ever done in the last three years. Especially this man. 

“Well this has been fun. Think I’ve fulfilled my end of the bargain by now, if you wouldn’t mind.” 

“No.” 

Stiles’ shoulders tighten, readying himself to stand his ground. Nothing’s ever easy with him, seriously. 

“I did everything we spoke of. Is your word really as shit as your personality?” 

Derek turns his heavy eyes on him and Stiles fights the instinct to shrink. Instead he grinds his jaw, opening his mouth to do something stupid like insult a man he’s just seen murder someone without blinking. 

Derek speaks before Stiles gets a word out, “Everyone saw you with me tonight, Stiles. When Blake can’t get to me he’ll come for you. What do you think happens when they find you with the girl? Or your Father?” Derek stares him down with his hands on his hips. “For now they don’t know who you are. If you start walking around freely it won’t take them long to track you down. You’re smart enough to know you can’t shake a tail indefinitely.” 

“I can’t just disappear, I have responsibilities-”

Stiles’ chest seizes at the new implications of the situation. His friends and father in danger because Stiles was a fucking idiot in the wrong place at the very wrong time. He tugs at his hair. He doesn’t know when Derek got so close but the way he’s looming over him has Stiles’ vision tunneling with something like claustrophobia. Every breath is harder to take. 

“Your responsibility is to keep them safe. You have until the blood is cold to decide how.” Derek says.

Stiles looks at him incredulously, fury flaring beneath his panic. 

“What are the options? Hide in a hole until I grow a beard or get my family murdered?” 

His mind races to the extreme. How long will he have to wait until the Blake’s stop looking for him? A month? A year? Would they ever stop? The thought of not seeing his dad until his hair is grey leaves his eyes wet and chest heaving. He’s falling apart in front of a crowd and he honestly can’t give a damn. This is Stiles’ family, his life. Frustrated tears blur his vision as he fists his hands, his breath light with the brink of hysteria. 

His entire life Stiles has rejected any form of authority. Now he realises he can do nothing more than admit his need for someone to give him an answer. Resentment and desperation churn in his gut. 

“What the fuck do I do?” His voice is uneven with emotion as he asks the world at large for direction. 

A heavy hand curls around his neck and brings Derek Hale's face inches from his into clear focus. He speaks quietly yet sternly. 

“Stay with me, Stiles. The Blake’s will be dealt with.” 

Stiles falls heavily into his previously abandoned lounge chair and sinks his face into his hands. He doesn’t answer because it wasn’t a question. It was an order. The pounding of his heart acts as gavel, he may as well have taken a prison sentence. 

Time is a fickle thing and Stiles loses track of how long it takes for Lahey to pop up. What Stiles assumes are a handful of Derek’s other cronies continue past the parlour door while Lahey speaks to the man in low tones Stiles purposefully blocks from the other side of the room. Still, Stiles doesn’t miss the sneer directed his way and is quick to return it. Something about that guy has always reminded Stiles of twelve year old bullies who picked on smaller kids because they couldn’t fight back. 

Lahey stomps out and Stiles figures he’s on his way to help the others. Derek stays seated, keeps his neatly trimmed nails far away from the mess he’s made. 

With the arrival of the sun everyone from the party has disappeared. Right before Lahey had shown his face, Lydia and Liam slipped away into one of the manor’s many wings. Derek kept Stiles waiting with him in the parlour reeking of ancient cigars. Stiles slumps on a settee across the room from the leather armchair Derek has claimed. 

Something in Stiles itches. Several times he stands to pace only to sit when he finds himself gravitating too close to Derek. The man’s eyes on him do nothing to help. 

“Sit.”

“Thought I had choices.” Stiles tosses over his shoulder, suddenly pissed at the sight of Derek’s obnoxious initial rings on the arm rest. How full of yourself do you have to be?

“You have quite the mouth on you, little fox.” Derek’s head tilts in consideration and Stiles’ stomach twists with dejavu. 

Facial hair hints along Derek’s jaw. A five in the morning shadow. Stiles is both thankful and annoyed his own face remains smooth. Belatedly he scowls in offence at the comment and degrading name he’s quickly growing tired of. 

“You also have blood on your face. Go wash.” Derek continues. 

Stiles’ foot halts mid-air. He hadn’t even realized in the shock of the moment, but with a glance down he can tell Derek’s right. There’s blood on his white shirt, trailing up in a way he imagines means there’s more on his face. He cringes and quickens his pace towards the toilet. The same one where that smarmy ass accosted him. God, what a night. 

Arctic water rushes over his head until he’s numb. He removes his face from the faucet and catches himself in the mirror, flushed from scrubbing. There’s nothing to be done to save the shirt and now that he knows it’s there the blood burns against his chest. With awkward movements he strips and tosses it into the corner in a ball worth more than his entire wardrobe. Surely one of the footmen can deal with that later, Stiles is a bit beyond caring. 

Derek’s eyes linger on him when Stiles returns with only the blazer on his shoulders. Stiles knows his figure is slim, no six pack abs to show off, but he hasn’t bothered to even do up the single button. Fuck it. He’s got bigger things to worry about than showing a bit of skin to someone who’s seen it all before. 

Derek stands before Stiles decides where he wants to resume his pacing. 

“We’re leaving.” 

“Thank fuck.” 

Stiles tugs on his damp fringe and follows behind Derek without complaint for the first time. Anything to get him out here. 

He barely registers the car ride, only coming back to himself when the door opens beside him. Derek’s holding it. Stiles frowns, he hadn't even noticed Derek getting out beside him. When he crawls out he steadies himself from a headrush and squints against an oncoming headache.

They’re in a garage, large but not insane like the one Lahey took him to. Inside the house is not a house. It’s not quite Lydia Martin levels of absurd, who had monogrammed face towels in the loo like a twat, but it still earns the title of mansion and then some. Stiles nearly loses count of the halls and staircases they pass until Derek opens a door and motions for Stiles to enter first. 

The bedroom is large to fit the scale of the rest of the place. It’s filled with the minimalist decor of a high end magazine photo that’s eerily familiar to the only five star hotel Stiles has ever been in.

“Settle in. I’ll wake you to eat.”

Stiles doesn’t bother responding, doesn’t even look to see Derek close the door with a click. He makes his way to the king sized bed in the middle of the room. Fully clothed he crawls on top of the covers and curls into a tight ball. 

Sometime later he pulls out his phone. 

“Scott.” 

That’s it. The script in his head contains that one word and nothing else to convey what he needs to on this phone call.

“Stiles? It’s… it’s six in the morning.” 

“Scott,“ Stiles swallows. Okay. Words. “I had to say it.” 

“Say what?” 

Stiles is trying to figure out if it’s too late to say he moved to Antarctica for a while when it must click because Scott curses. 

“Fucking shit, Stiles. Really? Shit, holy shit!” 

Stiles closes his eyes and feels validated by Scott’s growing panic. He’d locked himself in the ensuite and had the same meltdown ten minutes ago.

“Where are you? Are you okay? What happened? Can you even tell me? Is he- How are you not dead?” 

“Thanks for thinking you were sending me to my death,” Stiles half jokes and scratches his nose as his voice grows serious. “I’m fine. Or, alive. I won't- I can’t- I need you to keep an eye on him for a bit.”

Jesus, he sounds like a bumbling idiot. Scott will understand. Stiles knows his Dad technically can handle himself, but with the way he’s been pulling doubles and sleeping every moment he can at home Stiles wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t notice he wasn’t around for a while. It might be easier if he doesn’t find out, ever.

“How long?” Scott’s voice deepens seriously and Stiles has a feeling he’s really asking if Stiles is talking about forever. 

“I don’t know.” Stiles groans and rubs at his eye. “It’s all fucked right now. He’s a real peach by the way, but he says he’s got it sorted.”

Scott knows who he’s talking about because he was the one to tell Stiles he’d be taken to ‘the boss’ if he ever said the word. He wants to ask if Scott knew who the boss was, but he can’t think of why he would, or what he’d say if Scott asked why it mattered. It’s not like Scott knew about Stiles’ less than savoury moonlighting. 

“Trust him. He’ll do it if he says he’ll do it.”

“And how would you know?” Stiles demands, second guessing everything he’d just thought.

He grew up calling Scott his brother. Stiles met him through the lacrosse team when they were pre-teen rascals, and Stiles sure as shit knows there’s no reason for Scott to be acquainted with the likes of Derek Hale. 

“Just trust me enough to trust him. Don’t worry about your dad. But what, uh… What do you want me to say if he asks?” 

He does trust Scott, so Stiles sighs and lets him get away with the evasive response. He picks at the fabric on his leg, irritated by the smooth unblemished threads because he’s used to pulling loose strings on tattered jeans.

“Tell him I’m on a work trip, an industry conference or something.” 

It’s almost the truth. Stiles would laugh if he thought it were funny. His Dad knew he flitted from job to job, he could probably remember the last one he’d told him about with as much clarity as he could, which is to say not at all. The lie would sell easily.

A heavy silence settles on the line. It’s not uncomfortable, there’s just not a lot to say. Or perhaps too much. 

“It’s gonna be okay, Stiles.” 

“Sure.” Stiles agrees to be easy because he doesn’t want to be thinking about how very not okay everything feels. “Thanks bro. See ya… see you later.” He catches himself from saying ‘soon’ because the truth of the matter is it might not be very soon at all. 

He sits on the bed and presses the phone to his lips while he thinks of his dad. Scott gets on with him. If he lets himself, Stiles almost believes he’ll be alright without him. It’s equally as reassuring as it is disheartening. 

With the most important task done he stumbles into the shower. The hot spray of strong water pressure is something he grudgingly admits feels like heaven after years of his drippy tap at home. His spine tingles when he realises the provided products match the scents he’s become familiar with around Derek, lavender and crisp pine. 

When Stiles shuffles into the bedroom with a towel around his waist he frowns at the light creeping around the blackout drapes, the soft blue glow just enough light for him to navigate his way with lidded eyes. Lazily he drags his discarded pants back on and slides between the cool sheets. He’s sleeping before his head hits the pillow. 

A knock pulls him into consciousness. Without a pause for response Derek enters in nothing less than an embroidered silk pyjama set. Only three buttons of the shirt have been done to expose a chest full of hair that leads the gaze like an arrow, down dow- Stiles snaps his eyes up to Derek’s. A pile of clothes drop onto the end of the bed. 

“Good morning. Get dressed.” 

Stiles blinks away the lingering sleep and sits up with a muffled groan as his body instinctively stretches. Pushing the duvet the rest of the way down he slips his bare feet onto hardwood flooring. He cringes at the cold and pulls on the proffered clothes, too preoccupied being half asleep to properly spit back something about being told what to do. Derek strides to the window and draws back the curtains to reveal blinding white light. Stiles squints at the midday overcast sky and mutters a curse, still hopping to pull up the waistband.

The sweatpants are soft and he has to double knot the drawstring to make them stay on his hips. He loops the ankles several times to reveal his bare feet. The thin blue shirt is similarly loose and it’s the stretched neck that gives Stiles the realisation. These are Derek’s clothes. Actual clothes he’s worn before, not just unused extras. The internal debate to tear them off or not is short lived when Stiles knows it’s either wear these or the dingy tailored trousers and honestly, Stiles can’t see much difference when Derek’s money paid for both. 

Derek strolls out of the room without a word. Stiles continues his muttered cursing and follows, fighting not to rush so he doesn’t get lost in the maze of a house. He glares at his soft shower fresh hair, right above where his black silk shirt highlights the definition of his shoulders. Stiles feels like he’s been run over by a truck. Who does this motherfucker think he is to look like this after the night they had?

Then Stiles remembers this is Derek Hale, and his nights are probably more often than not similar in theme to last night. Big party with attractive people, addictive substances, and a sprinkling of death. The usual. 

They turn into a kitchen anything but usual. It’s a size fit for a full staff. Stiles would like to say the large space makes Derek look small, but he still moves with an ease of confidence that fills the space while doing the mundane, like- like preparing tea in silk pyjamas. 

Stiles blinks into the porcelain teacup appearing in his hands. Black tea paled with milk. He takes a sip and finds it pleasantly sweet. Exactly the way he likes it. Alarmed he peeks over at the mug wrapped in Derek’s hands and is marginally comforted to find it in the same shape. Just a coincidence they happen to like it the same way, then. 

They take up residency in striped armchairs by a window just off the kitchen, in what Stiles muses must be what those posh people call a breakfast nook. Sometime between waking and now rain started rolling against the window pane. Stiles taps the rim of his teacup. 

“Would you like to talk about last night?”

Stiles shrugs, “Which part? The drugs or the murder?” 

Derek gives his blase tone a small frown. 

“Death is very traumatic for everyone, Stiles. None of us are above it.” Derek’s tone is unnervingly serious and Stiles squirms under his eyes like they can read the truth under his skin. 

“I’m fine.” 

Derek hums disbelievingly but doesn’t push. Stiles sips his tea in an attempt to buy time and find a good way to talk about something that actually matters, but as usual he is too impatient for subtleties and speaks without tact. 

“In your grand plan, how long am I public enemy number two?” 

“A week. No longer.” 

The teacup nearly topples out of Stiles’ hand. A week. It’s shorter than he dared imagine but longer than he’s been from his family in a long time. 

“I can stay here meanwhile?” 

“Yes.” 

Stiles tries. He bites his lip and tries really hard not to, but he still asks, “Why?” 

“You sought sanctuary.”

Stiles looks at Derek, shocked. Saying the word in the alley had been like bypassing the police and going straight to the judge, with the only two rulings being dead or immune. Derek hadn’t killed him, but Stiles figured he’d cocked things up by his spur of the moment quitting. 

“I didn’t think you granted it.” He admits. 

“I didn’t kill you. That was my blessing.” 

Stiles can’t help it, he laughs. Thankfully Derek’s eyes shine with amusement beside him, and okay. So the guy has enough humour to know how ridiculous he sounds. 

Stiles drums his hands on his thighs, pedalling thoughts. Sanctuary. He doesn’t want to think of all the word implies, especially when attached to someone like Derek Hale. Rumours and ghost stories aside, there was little he could honestly say he knew about the man.

“Will you still honour the deal after the week is up or am I shit out of luck?” 

“The mouth on you,” Derek tsks, “cuts right to the chase.”

Stiles’ nerves hum with the lack of an answer. His grips tightens on the teacup as he leans over his knees and charges on, “I don’t like ambiguity. I won’t pretend to play a game I have no chance in winning just to please you.” 

Derek gives him a fond smile like he’s looking at a small animal that’s done something cute. Stiles practically feels the patronizing head pat. 

“It’s not a bad thing, sweetheart.” He sets down his empty cup on the small table between them, “After this week I will honour the original deal. You’ll be paid and free to go.” 

Stiles lets out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. Somehow freedom has gone from one night to one week, but he forces himself to believe it’s true this time. One week and he walks away from Derek Hale forever. 

Stiles leans back into his seat and surreptitiously scans the man next to him. Derek’s head is tilted to the clouds like he’s content to enjoy the simple sight of dreary weather. Even in sleepwear he has every finger covered in rings and Stiles notes his flexing bare toes. Someone so comfortable in themselves was someone who never had an internal debate when making a decision. They pulled a trigger without hesitation. They were someone to be scared of. 

-

_“Such a pretty boy begging for me, anything you want. So lovely when you’re needy, fuck. So fucking perfect.”_

_Sheets twist in Stiles fists as a thick thumb flicks over the wet tip and presses into the sensitive underside on a downward stroke. He struggles to chase the friction and still rock down in tempo. Something shifts at the movement. A spark explodes, glitter and crimson on the back of his eyelids._

_Stiles cries out as flames surge inside him. The depth of his bliss is unparalleled to any he’s experienced before, better than every fumbling excuse of an encounter he’s ever had, a redefinition of the word pleasure._

_“That’s it. Need me right there sweetheart?”_

_Words are beyond him. Stiles doesn’t need to answer given the increase in speed, the hand on his cock tightening. The faintest tip of a thought squirms it’s way into his head, reminding him not to come until the other man does. Until the customer does._

_Stiles bites his bottom lip and forces his eyes open, trying to regain a semblance of focus. It doesn’t work. All he sees is the deep cut of the unbuttoned silk shirt revealing an impeccable chest glistening with sweat. He casts his eyes up and the sight is no better, the man’s face enough to make Stiles believe he’s actually sunken into some form of hell. Distressed little sounds keep working their way from him as he struggles. Clinging to his control is like dangling from an oiled cliffside._

_Teeth tug at the thin skin beneath his ear._

_“It’s okay. Fall apart for me darling.”_

-

Stiles wakes on his second day in Derek’s house with a raging hard on. Not uncommon, but the memory that caused it crushes his mood even as he reaches down. He indulges in a few pulls to stave off the worst of it and convinces himself to stand. When he shuffles into the ensuite the door closes behind him with a slam. The shower faucet stays set to cold. 

He didn’t know what he expected when he agreed to live in the house of Derek Hale, but somehow it wasn’t actually living _with_ Derek Hale. The house was large enough for them to orbit in separate trajectories. For some inexplicable reason the room Stiles had been shown was two doors down from the master and he didn’t want to go through the fuss of shuffling off to a new one, so he stayed. Which meant he heard every time Derek came and went with his heeled boots echoing down the hall. 

Stiles spends most of the day in a similar manner as the day before, lounging on the bed and paging through a romance novel he found tucked in the bedside table. He wonders what sort of guest left it there for him to find. Lydia didn’t strike him as a Notebook fan. 

Dinner is uncomfortable. Not due to the fact the dining table is meant for ten more people than there are. It’s their plates full of take-away Derek grabbed on his way back from wherever he went during the day. Stiles isn’t sure what to make of a man of such luxury chowing down on pad thai without an ounce of finesse. It’s just too… normal. 

For every question Derek volleys, Stiles has his defenses up, elbows on the table and armed with monosyllabic responses. 

“How was your day?”

“Fine.”

“Did you use the pool?”

“No.”

Derek hums consideringly and spears a vegetable with his chopsticks. “Would you like to go after dinner?”

Stiles snorts. “Smooth.” 

Derek’s eyes glint with humour over his noodle carton.

“If I wanted you undressed and soaking wet I have better ways. I was thinking you must be stressed, swimming is a good way to clear the head.”

“So you don’t want me undressed?” Stiles lets slip. Damn. Not monosyllabic. 

It’s not flirty, he tells himself. He needs to know if Derek is expecting something even if he has to do so inelegantly. Given their past it wouldn’t be a surprise, but Stiles will take any chance he has to tell Derek to go fuck himself. 

Derek eyes him, a frost enveloping his demeanor so quick Stiles barely sees the shift happen between blinks. 

Derek replies with an edge, “What we did at the party was a show, you understand? I may be a bad man, Stiles, but I find no joy in the pain of others.” 

Stiles snorts, “Rich, coming from someone who profits from pain.” 

Stiles’ blood is pumping now. Derek sits back in his chair, carton and chopstick limp in his hands while he addresses Stiles. 

“My clientele are hand picked. If I did not sell to them they would go elsewhere for questionable products from dangerous sources. I maintain high quality in scheduled amounts, no more or less. It is a kindness both parties profit from, I can’t sell if my people are killing themselves.” 

“A kindness?” Stiles says like the words are poison in his mouth. 

“Criminal activity will happen no matter who does it, I simply aim to do it better. Under my hand the city’s criminal rate has dropped. The systems I have in place make incarceration or violent attacks while under my employment low.”

“Saint Derek, how wonderful.” Stiles snears. 

Derek sighs and drops his chopsticks, sitting up and fully facing Stiles’ anger with a gaze that feels too much like disappointment. Stiles squirms. 

“You do not need to understand, but I had hoped you would.” Derek lifts his wine glass and swirls it quickly like a habit before sipping. He places it down without a sound. “Keep thinking of me as the devil. It’ll be easier.” 

“Was it a kindness when you paid to fuck me?” 

Derek stands abruptly with a loud protest from the chair.

“That was some time ago and I was not myself. I’d rather we didn’t discuss it.” He walks away as he speaks, straightening the loose clothes arranged artistically on his frame as he goes.

Stiles glares at the back of his head and drops the items in his hands to properly fist them. 

“How convenient for you. Keep walking away, Derek. The rest of us will keep living in the shit below your shoes so you don’t have to think about it.” 

Derek pauses at the edge of the room. 

“I’m always thinking about it.” 

And then he’s gone like some tortured soul slipping into his dungeon. Fucking hundred metre dungeon with remote control water tempreatures. Stiles bets the bastard even has a hot tub. 

Meanwhile Stiles is left at a table of half eaten congealed noodles. Swearing under his breath he pushes everything into the plastic bag it came in and chucks it in the rubbish on his way past the kitchen, more out of habit than courtesy. What he’s seen so far of the place is organized in a way he’s possibly a little bitter about. If Stiles has a secret thing for being orderly it’s certainly no one’s business. 

He is sure as shit stressed now, but he doesn’t go to the pool. He sits in his shower until his fingers prune with unwanted thoughts of the months spent earning money on the streets in a less than pleasant manner. Right when things got really bad, after he finished school and turned down sponsorships so he could stay home to help his mother, only to realise he couldn’t lock down a proper job that paid nearly enough. 

Derek had been the first and last man Stiles slept with for money. Different sleek black car, hair a little wilder, and a few less rings, but it had been Derek Hale who spent an entire night tearing Stiles apart with steady hands. It was also Derek who had the audacity to leave a stack of cash on the bedside large enough to keep Stiles and the family afloat for a year. 

The entire year the cash burned in Stiles’ pocket. After seeing Derek’s face in the paper under a less than favourable headline, Stiles spent every day with his head cranked over his shoulder waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for Derek to collect on whatever it was he thought he paid for. When the last of the money was gone and Stiles took up drug running he managed to shake off most of his paranoia. What didn’t fade was the want to punch Derek in the face to prove Stiles owed him absolute shit all, a desire that grew when Derek walked into that stupid garage and Stiles realised who he’d been working for. 

He gets out of the shower shivering and scrubs a towel through his hair. There’s a short text from Scott waiting for him. 

_‘All good here.’_

Three words. Not nearly enough.

Stiles wakes in the middle of the night. He holds his breath while his ears strain. The pain in his lungs nears unbearable when a creak leading down the hallway clues him in. His chest deflates. 

Keeping his movements quiet he slips from the bed and into the winding maze of halls, inching his way through the dark until a soft sound reaches him. He’s still a few footsteps away from the dim light spilling out of the kitchen when he realises what it is. Humming. 

Leaning around the corner Stiles sees the orange stove light casting Derek’s bare shoulders into silhouette. The man is swaying a little as he whisks something in a pot. The notes of some pop song Scott likes softens the air. Moonlight defines the muscles of Derek’s back, the swell of his biceps, his thick fingers curled around the whisk. 

“Would you like some?”

Stiles jumps at being caught, Derek’s eyes finding him with ease like he’s known Stiles was there all along, Probably has. Stiles peels himself from the wall and shuffles closer to peer into the pot. 

“What is it?”

Derek’s lips twitch in a smile and he tilts the pot towards Stiles like that’ll help any.

“Cocoa.”

Stiles is close enough to feel the warmth of Derek’s bare skin now, obviously only because Derek’s whispering for some reason and Stiles has a hard time hearing. Obviously. 

“Okay,” he whispers. 

He steps away and his eyes rake Derek’s body once more without his permission. He plays with the oversized sweater cuffs as he waits. 

When their hands are wrapped around steaming mugs Derek leads them to a sofa, or rather he walks to the living room and Stiles follows. The drink is creamy and sweet, just as he likes it. 

“Who taught you to make cocoa?” 

He doesn’t mean for the words to sound as accusing as they do, it’s just rather unfair that someone like Derek is so good at making delicious hot drinks. 

“My mother.” The fact shouldn’t be shocking, everyone has a mother at some point. Yet not everyone has one that teaches you how to make hot chocolate, and Stiles wouldn’t have included Derek in the same category as him on that one. Stiles is unable to even picture Derek as a child. Perhaps he’s silent too long because Derek speaks again. “Do you miss your family?”

Stiles does. He misses them like a sawed off limb. He shifts his weight on the overstuffed cushions and stares into his mug. 

“I don’t want to speak about them with you.” He replies quietly. Politely. In addition to cocoa, his mother taught him manners once. It was also hard to find the strength to fire up his usual resentment in the stillness of the night. 

“What do you want to speak about?”

Being given the choice nearly knocks Stiles off balance. It’s a lot of power when Stiles always feels several steps behind Derek in every conversation. Immediately the question that’s plagued him for years blares in his mind, the one he’s always been scared of knowing the answer to. It sits on the tip of his tongue, and yet he knows there’s a more important one to ask, one he needs more than wants.

“Why did you pay so much?” 

Derek’s hand is slow to raise with something like caution, if Stiles thought Derek knew what that word meant. Warm from holding his drink, Derek’s thumb strokes the soft skin beneath Stiles’ eye. 

“You were so young, Stiles.”

Stiles bites his tongue to stop his denial. Derek’s right. Even now, three years later, it’s obvious. There are fine lines around Derek’s eyes, a solidness to him where Stiles is still soft. Sitting across from him is a full grown man and Stiles can feel every year separating them like the inches of space between them. 

Derek withdraws his hand with one last brush of his knuckles against Stiles’ jaw, the pinch of his brow remorseful, “I shouldn’t have touched you. I paid a fair price for how much I took.”

Stiles ducks under his fringe to hide the way he’s blinking to hold back whatever it is spilling out from him. He remembers, in a vague sense from years of trying to forget, the way he’d curled into his own bed the day after. How he’d sat under the searing hot shower, not to wash clean but to imitate the feeling of being surrounded. It was the first and only time he’d longed to feel a touch long after it had disappeared. 

Then he recalls his reaction to the amount of cash left behind, how his longing had curdled into spite. He didn’t need some rich man’s pity. 

“I chose to do it, didn’t I? If it hadn’t been you it would’ve been someone else. Fifty fifty on it being a balding accountant or serial killer,” Stiles frowns on the thought, “or if I’d been really unlucky, he’d 've been both.” 

Derek leans away completely. There’s a harsh slant of his eyebrows making him look cross.

“I’d hoped the money would allow you to find an alternative means of employment.”

Stiles chuckles softly, dejectedly, “Yeah, well. I sure know how to pick em, don’t I?” He tugs at the sofa threads, “Is that what this is about? Paying me out of this job like how you paid me out of the last one?” 

“I’d have paid the same price for someone else to work the party.”

Stiles itches to ask about it, about her. The woman who tricked Derek Hale. Who almost got away with killing him. He stills his tongue, knowing Derek might actually tell him, but now doesn’t feel like the moment for it. Not when Stiles can see a bit of melted marshmallow on the side of the man’s mouth. 

“What’s your vice?” 

Derek blinks, a rare look on his face like he’s been caught off guard by Stiles’ abrupt change in topic. He runs a finger along the brim of his empty mug and for the briefest of seconds Stiles is jealous of cold porcelain.

“You’re holding it, little fox,” Gently Derek takes the empty mug from Stiles’ hands and rises to his feet, “I’ve got a sweet tooth. Would you like another?” 

“No, thanks.”

Stiles answers automatically and pulls back into himself, he must be more tired than he thought. 

Derek leaves on quiet socked feet. In the dark the weight of worry Stiles has been carrying around for years disintegrates from his back. He always told himself he didn’t owe Derek anything after that night, no matter how much the man paid. Still, to have it confirmed by the man himself is a relief he is both shameful and grateful for. 

Little noises come from the kitchen. He expects Derek to continue on to his bedroom, but the bustle in the kitchen continues longer than Derek simply dropping the mugs off. Stiles is too curious to stay where he is. 

Derek’s back at the stove with the blasted Marry Poppins song on his lips. Stiles peers around him to see the pot on the burner. 

“Are you really making yourself another?” 

“Change your mind?” Derek teases quietly while keeping up the slow swirl of the whisk. Stiles glares at the side of his face that has no business looking so damn charming. 

“Yes.” He turns so he doesn’t have to see Derek’s smirk. “Turn the heat down, you scald the milk.” 

It’s a lie. The milk is perfectly prepared, Stiles just wants to make Derek’s face stop looking so fond. Stiles wanders back to the couch and waits quietly on the sofa until Derek joins and hands him his refilled mug. They share the second cup in silence. It’s just as good as the first and everything about the moment almost feels… pleasant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lydia Martin? In a pant suit? hot DAMN. Think Blake Lively in A Simple Favor. Oof!


	2. Chapter 2

A door slams. Every muscle in Stiles’ body tenses under the sheets. Heavy footsteps track through the first floor, up the stairs, closer and closer. Stiles holds his breath, his heart slamming against his ribcage with every step that grows louder. Closer and closer they march until BANG. 

Stiles startles so badly he falls halfway out of the bed, but his bedroom door is still shut when he gets a look at it. The noise must have been a different door down the hall. Derek’s door, if Stiles places the sound of loud male cursing correctly. Slowly he slips the rest of the way off the bed and has a quick moment of indecision to hide under it or not. He shakes his head at himself and tiptoes to the bedroom door to press an ear against it. 

The voices are hard to make out, but Stiles doesn’t need to guess who the louder one is. It’s distinctly female. 

“-on their way. Twenty minutes max to get your skirts on.” 

“Who’s intel?” 

“Whittemore. Yeah yeah scum of the earth for touching your boy, let’s not twist our panties. He’s reliable about this and time is limited.” 

Derek says something Stiles can only make out as a rumble and then footsteps in the hall shock him backwards. He doesn’t get very far before his bedroom door swings to reveal a livid Derek Hale. 

“You have five minutes to be dressed and ready to leave.” 

He vanishes without a word more, unsurprised to see Stiles already out of bed and hovering awkwardly in his boxers. Stiles pulls on a tshirt and tucks it into the navy party trousers that have been washed since his arrival. He doesn’t know when or if they’ll return and he figures if he doesn’t die in them he can resell them for a pretty penny. 

Lydia leans into the doorway while Stiles still has a hand in his pants. She doesn’t say anything, just crosses her arms and watches while Stiles spins and tries to catalogue the things he has or should bring. But he arrived with nothing, didn’t he? So it shouldn’t be a surprise there’s nothing for him to worry about leaving behind. At the last minute he drags open a dresser drawer and yanks out a sweater, one of the many magically appearing clothing items. It’s a purple he wouldn't buy for himself and soft as he rolls back the sleeves so they don’t completely cover his hands. 

Lydia continues to stare and doesn’t move when Stiles approaches the door. She’s traded in her cream suit for a navy blue one. In socked feet Stiles stands less than an inch shorter than the healed woman, but the air around her feels charged and makes her seem larger than her physical size. 

“You attract trouble, do you know that?”

Stiles rubs his nose and shrugs, not sure what Lydia is getting at but also not sure how to ask the unfortunately intimidating woman to move out of his way.

“Just rather coincidental three years ago he’s off fucking around for the first time in his life and his house gets shot up. Now, here you are dancing around him again and there’s someone pissing on his doorstep.”

Stiles shifts his weight from foot to foot and fiddles with the rolled cuffs. There’s something there he needs to look at, something about what Lydia’s just said that could change a lot of things about how Stiles thinks about Derek, but he’s a little too concerned with the immediate worry Lydia thinks he might have had something to do with a set up. 

Stiles tries to meet the woman’s eyes steadily in hopes the scared honesty he’s feeling makes an impression, “I don’t-”

Lydia knocks her head back in an eye roll, “Calm down Pet, I know all about you. You’re as harmless as a kitten.” 

Stiles bristles and crosses his arms at the easy arrogance in Lydia’s voice, but also feels a zing of worry shoot through him. Derek, Isaac, now Lydia. He’s spent too much time shutting out any information on what he was involved in and not a second spared on how many people had access to the details of his own life. His family. 

Lydia’s eyes narrow, growing serious. 

“You’re also a magnet, a rather distracting one that makes him stupid. He can’t afford it, I can’t afford it, so calm your tits and walk away without turning back when the blood dries, yeah?” Stiles’ first instinct is to ask who’s blood they’re talking about here, but he bites it down as Lydia whirls on him. “Come on, he’s about ready to shoot me in the back for holding your attention for so long.” 

She walks away in an infuriatingly similar way as Derek. Not a glance behind her to see if Stiles follows, just pure arrogance in knowing she will be listened to. 

Stiles follows, of course, because there’s nothing else he can do. Luckily he located the one and only pair of shoes he has during his boring day yesterday and he makes a small detour to the front door to slip into them. 

Derek’s in the garage. He meets Stiles’ eyes briefly without emotion as he enters but is quick to turn to Lydia, who’s come up beside him and taken whatever it is Derek’s offering. Lydia lifts her right arm and tucks something under the neat lines of her jacket in a motion Stiles only recognizes from television. A gun. Derek’s just given Lydia a gun, and now that Stiles is looking he can see Derek’s got one of his own disappearing in a similar fashion on his left side. 

Stiles tries really hard not to stare, and by that he means he looks at his shoes and the ceiling and the car, anywhere but the two armed adults. He can feel eyes on him gauging his reaction and Stiles not going to freak out about it, even though he really really wants to. 

There are six sleek black vehicles of various sizes lining the garage like a dealership showcase. Lydia slips into the thin sports car. Derek walks around to a larger luxury SUV and props open the back door with a hard look at Stiles when his feet remain glued.

“Get in the car, Stiles.”

Stiles doesn’t budge.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

“No.”

A huff of jaded disbelief leaves Stiles, “Excuse me if I don’t feel particularly motivated to get in a vehicle with you again.” 

“Derek.” Lydia’s voice calls impatiently from the open window of the sports car and echoes harshly around the cement walls of the garage. Derek doesn’t spare her a glance, just curls his fists and tilts his head at Stiles. 

“Now is not the time. A bit of trust, please.” 

“Trust?” Stiles spits, his lungs starting to ache in an all too familiar way as the reality of his situation pierces through the veil of detachment he’d so meticulously built. “I’ve given you nothing but trust! I’ve barely spoken to anyone for days while you’re off running around playing mafia king!” 

The sports car purrs to life beside them and pulls out while Derek storms into Stiles space and grips his arm. 

“I understand you’re upset, but I simply can not deal with it right now.” 

“The fuck do you think you’re doing?” 

Stiles doesn’t get an answer as he’s shoved with a bruising grip into the back of the SUV, too shocked to fight it when he’s manhandled into a seat and forcefully buckled before the door slams. Derek slips into the driver’s seat and they’re moving, ripping out of the garage behind the purring sports car with windows so tinted Stiles only knows it’s Lydia behind the wheel because he saw the woman get in. 

Rage bubbles under Stiles’ skin. 

“You can’t treat people like that.” 

“I wouldn’t have to if you did as told.” 

Stiles leans over the centre console so he’s in Derek’s space, “Listening to you has given me shit.”

“Right now it’s keeping you alive.” 

“I was doing a rather good job of it before you got involved.”

Derek growls in a similar note as the engine, “You were hours away from being left in a ditch.”

The truth of it cuts. Stiles recoils into the backseat. Even though he isn’t looking at him he glares at Derek in the rearview mirror. 

“Mighta been better than being touched by your filthy hands” 

Stiles is quite proud of the flinch he gets out of Derek. He hadn’t gone for a cheap shot on Derek’s performance, this was a blow meant to hit personal and he savours the burn. He doesn’t mean it, values his life more than to ever wish he were dead, but he let’s Derek think otherwise.

The scene outside the window blurs too fast to catch every turn and street sign. Stiles isn’t bothered enough to be upset about it. Or he isn’t, until they take the merger for the motorway. His gut turns to stone. Over the hum of the wheels tearing over pavement Stiles hears Derek suck in a breath like he’s about to say something more. A phone call comes through bluetooth before he can let it out. Derek jabs answer. 

“Gotta nice trio of tails already. Don’t think they know which cup holds the ball yet,” Lydia’s voice comes in through the speaker. 

Every hair on Stiles’ body stands on end. He whips to look through the back window only to find mostly empty road, the few cars they pass going the speed limit and fading quickly from sight. He’s about to voice his opinion that Lydia needs a pair of glasses when a flash of colour catches his eyes. In a blink an ostentatious red sports car ducks from behind a crooked van and scoots up to slide behind a rusting Volvo, it’s low profile slipping seemingly into thin air behind the older car. He blinks again and catches another dash of red. And another. Lydia’s right, three in total flitting behind other cars to stay out of direct sight.

Exceleration sends Stiles slamming a hand onto the seat to keep his balance. He turns forward to find Derek glaring down the open road with heated focus. Out the side window the sports car Lydia is driving zips forward and Derek shifts gear to follow, another burst of speed sending Stiles flat into the seat. He’s never been in a moving vehicle this fast. Despite the confident way Derek’s cutting around every obstacle Stiles’ stomach lurches. Derek’s cool eyes flick to the rearview mirror, but they look past Stiles, who’s neck cranks to see what Derek’s focused on. The three red cars are no longer hiding. In full pursuit their motors rumble with each weave they take to follow the two blacks. 

“Eenie-meenie-minie-moe,” Lydia hums in a childish tone and Derek’s knuckles tighten on the wheel. 

“Lydia, don’t you dare-”

Lydia cackles, “Ah, sorry Der. Gonna catch myself a tiger!”

Stiles is completely clueless as to what the fuck they’re talking about and he jerks his head around until he sees the onyx sports car fly with the speed of light across multiple lanes of traffic to barely make an exit in time. Only one of the red cars reacts fast enough to follow him up the rounded ramp. 

At first Stiles thinks the speakers pop, the noise so loud it throws Stiles off balance. Sweat breaks out across his skin. Has Lydia’s car blown up? Did she crash? No matter how Stiles twists the ramp is too far in the distance to see anything. The noise comes through again, followed by Lydia’s muttered cursing. 

Gun shots.

Just as Stiles makes the connection a pop rings crystal clear, not through the speaker but in his own ear.

“Onto the floor.” Derek commands with an even tone.

Stiles doesn’t need to be told twice. He looks down and fumbles with his slippery buckle. 

He crams himself into the floor as several bullets pierce the vehicle and thud against the glass. It may be bulletproof, but that doesn’t translate to indestructible. A few more well placed shots and he knows the panes of glass will shatter just like anything else. His face is pressed against the back of the passenger's seat and gives him a direct view of Derek’s chiselled jaw clenched with tension. 

“Derek.”

Nothing. Not even a glance. But okay, Stiles’ voice had been a little shaky so that could be on him. Stiles wipes sweat from his brow and licks his lips.

“Derek,” he tries a little louder, a little more forcefully. Still he’s ignored, and maybe he imagines it but the world seems to blur a little more around him, like Derek’s foot has grown a little heavier. Stiles fists the supple leather of the backseat so hard his nails are bound to leave permanent imprints. 

“Derek Fuckin-”

“Solomon,” The flat of Derek’s palm slams against the steering wheel like he’s truly pissed off about Stiles’ inaccurate use of his name, “It’s Solomon Hale.” 

Stiles’ lips thin out as his own temper flares. Slowly he enunciates every syllable of the name, “Derek Fucking Solomon Hale, listen to me for half a damn second.”

“What?” Derek snaps. The car continues to race under his control. 

“I’m bleeding.”

They jerk so quickly the side of Stiles’ head slams into the padded backside of the seat in front of him. Glaring green eyes meet Stiles over the seat shoulder before they scan down his body. Stiles can tell the exact moment Derek spies Stiles’ hand clenched to his soaking side. Derek’s eyes flick back to him for a fraction of a second with something like an accusation, like Stiles placed himself perfectly in front of the ricocheted bullet just to ruin Derek’s day further. 

Derek turns back to the road. Stiles holds on as best he can with one hand clawed into the leather and his other a vice on his hip. He hasn’t had a chance to look at it too closely, can’t even convince himself to let go long enough to survey the damage, but even though it hurts like a motherfucker it’s not the earth shattering blind pain he’s always imagined a bullet to be, more like the time he fell off his skateboard and gashed his knees. A glancing shot, he thinks. Hopes. 

His sweaty forehead presses to the seat in front of him with matted hair. He grimaces with every jerk of the car as Derek navigates abrupt swerves. Stiles drifts a little, if he’s being honest, a numbness coming over his face and fingertips that spreads into his limbs. 

Absently the contrast of blood soaking into the knit lilac sweater catches his mind. There will be no salvaging it. He won't be able to resell the trousers afterall. He’s less upset about the potential payday he’d been hoping for and more so about ruining the soft knit he’d secretly wanted to keep. 

Stiles’ mind latches onto a count of four his mom taught him, his lips silently moving along with the numbers as he breathes. 

A vulgar curse in Derek’s voice has Stiles jerking up to attention. The car swerves with a pull to the side, quickly decelerating in a way that doesn’t bode well. Stiles blinks to find focus while Derek rattles on about street names to someone. Lydia, right, his voice comes through on the radio in response before a click signals the end of call and Derek’s, oh, he’s- 

“Huh?” Stiles grumbles through the pain as he tries to follow the way Derek maneuvers himself into the backseat with the agile grace of a predator. Suddenly he’s close enough for Stiles to count eyelashes. A soft finger traces the skin under his eye, an oddly tender motion for the murderous look on Derek’s face. 

A set of tires squeal to a stop much too loud for his liking, then another set joins them. Two roaring engines drown out everything but his heart beat. Derek can surely feel it under his fingertips. Beneath wild curls the crease between Derek’s brows deepens like he’s the one in pain. His eyes scan Stiles’ face with such scrutiny Stiles forgets to breathe. 

“Stay.” 

“Derek-” Stiles doesn’t get the chance to continue. He growls at the door shut in his face, “Stop fucking leaving!” 

Silence rings back to him. 

This time, in the claustrophobic backseat of a drug lord's Range Rover with hot blood oozing between his fingers, Stiles does hyperventilate. His ragged breathing swells and locks in his chest. He desperately fights with his body to force more oxygen into his screaming lungs. A bead of sweat rolls down his temple as the moment drags in painfully slow silence. A scream lodges itself in his throat, ready to burst if only to break the tension. 

He doesn’t realise what he’s waiting for until it happens. A lone gunshot rings out. 

Stiles’ breath catches. 

The world breaks into chaos. Gunshots layer on top of one another in a way Stiles quickly loses track of, a few rattles as bullets pierce the vehicle unpredictably, leaving Stiles with nothing but a tight grip on luck to keep him out of their path. A man yells, then another, and it’s too hard to hear more than muffled bass lines but Stiles knows it’s not Derek. He knows because he wants nothing more than to hear him most. 

Stiles’ eyes haven’t looked away from the door across from him since Derek disappeared through it. He tries, or he should try to see what’s happening, but his body is paralyzed in the cramped floor between the back bench and passenger seat. A flash of hysteria threatens to bubble over him. He’s acting like the creature Derek mocks him with. He’s become a fox hiding in a hole. Stiles smothers it down quickly as the small shock of laughter jolts his side and sets off a round of piercing pain. With a sweat damp palm he swipes the matted fringe from his forehead. 

The sharp squeal of rubber against asphalt freezes him as another engine revs into the mix of the violent symphony. Stiles purses thin lips. Stop being a cunt and see what the fuck is happening, he tells himself. He digs his free hand into the leather and forces himself up. The wind is knocked from him by the explosion of pain the movement brings, but he let’s it out with a heavy grunt and keeps going until he sees around the passenger chair and over the console.

Impact points from bullets spider webb the windshield like cracked ice. Stiles can’t make out much more than vague shapes of solid colour past the bonnet. He curses and eyes the door handle. He’s working up the nerve to open it and misses the moment things go silent, meaning the sudden sharp click of the latch opening has him jolting away in terror. 

A cry escapes him as his pain turns sharp when he falls backwards into the drivers side footwell. The fraction of a second it takes him to recognize Derek is long enough for anger to boil. 

“What was that!? I’m not some child you can leave in the car while you go to the market,” He lashes out while Derek stands by the open car door a little more dirty and bloody than he was when he left, “The hell was I supposed to do if you didn’t come back? You didn’t even leave the fucking keys!” 

Stiles crawls out, stubbornly batting away the hand Derek offers and instead gripping hard at the doorway of the car to keep his balance on two unsteady feet. The keys would have done him no good, he quickly finds out at the sight of the flat tire. 

Derek doesn’t say anything of course. Just keeps that familiar frown on his face as he leads Stiles towards the familiar black sports car still pristine and idling by the curb. Out of the Rover Stiles realises they’re in the industrial district behind some manufacturing building with signage too faded to read, the empty lot littered with the debris of crumbling road and scrap metal. 

Shells of the formerly immaculate red cars sit haphazardly parked around Derek’s SUV, their windows cracked and frames riddled with bullet holes. Stiles’ anger slips, a dull horror wrapping around him at the unnatural twist of bodies scattered on the ground. 

Lydia leans against the open driver door and narrows her eyes. Stiles follows the gaze to his hip. Right. He’s still bleeding. That could be why his feet are dragging against the ground more times than he actually picks them up and the way Derek hovers at his back like he’s ready to act if Stiles trips. 

“Magnet,” Lydia mutters. 

Stiles doesn’t deign her with a response as he crawls into the back seat and deflates into the far corner. Derek follows and shuts the door, Lydia sliding into the driver's seat and easing them onto the road. 

Exhaustion collides with the last dregs of adrenaline in Stiles’ veins. He’s left oddly aware of the scant space between his knocked knees and Derek’s thigh. His hand is starting to cramp from being locked onto his side. Derek’s eyes feel pointed on the side of his face but Stiles resolutely doesn’t look at the bastard. For that split second when the door had opened in the SUV he’d been certain he was going to be dragged out and shot in the head without having said another word to his family, left facedown and crumpled like the bodies he’d walked past. 

“Damn it,” Stiles sighs under his breath, closer to a whine than he wants to admit.

He turns into the window and brings the hand not occupied to cover his face, unable to stop the grimace and shudder of his shoulders. Great. Fantastic. He’d just been yelling about not being a child and now he’s falling apart like some delicate flower. He’s not even sure why he’s crying. He’d just been- been so scared. 

“Stiles,” Derek’s voice is low. Stiles hates it. Absolutely despises the caution in it, like Stiles is some nervous animal that needs soothing. Hates it because it’s true. “Let me see.” 

Stiles wipes the hand over his face to smear away whatever traces there are of sweat, snot, and tears. With one last gross sniffle Stiles blinks his head clear and places his hand over the one that’s been glued to his side since the bullet ripped through the backseat. Stiles looks down and sees nothing but the torn and stained sweater scrunched around his starkly white hand. The blood is no longer hot. It sticks between his fingers like syrup and Stiles’ lip threatens to waver again when he tries to forcefully let go. Heat flares his cheeks. It shouldn’t be so hard. 

“I can’t.” He admits with a scratchy throat. 

Derek shifts beside him. Stiles can hardly see what he’s doing through the fog of his pain and embarrassment. Derek’s hand completely covers both of Stiles’. His other nudges under Stiles’ chin and Stiles can’t find anything to focus on until his watery eyes meet Derek’s clear greens. Understanding comes over him. 

Derek’s eyes harden, “Don’t look.” 

Stiles bites his lip and nods small, okay. Don’t look, don’t look, don’t-

Derek’s hand forcefully peels away his own and Stiles uses every ounce of his willpower to keep his eyes over Derek’s shoulder. The tug of the sweater peeling away from his skin makes him choke on waves of nausea. Derek shushes him gently while he leans closer to Stiles' hip. Infinity stretches between one blink and the next, and then Derek’s unbending and pulling the sweater back down. 

“A graze, the shock has done more than the bullet. You’ll be okay, little fox.” He squeezes Stiles’ hand in his, Stiles hadn’t even noticed he’d latched onto it the second he’d let go of his side, “I’d kill them twice if I had the chance.” 

Stiles believes it from the dark glint in Derek’s eye. 

Maybe because he’s from a tactile family, maybe because he’s rattled from recent events, maybe it’s something else entirely. Whatever the reason, Stiles keeps his hand tight on Derek’s to keep the man in place. He’s so close. Close enough for Stiles to give in and sink his face into the nook of Derek’s neck. He’s a little stiff as he waits for Derek’s reaction, but he wouldn’t be here with a torn open side if it weren’t for this man and the least he can do is deal with Stiles’ little breakdown for a few more minutes. 

Derek doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move to push him off or ask what Stiles thinks he’s doing like most men would. Instead the arm not trapped in Stiles’ crushing grip winds around Stiles’ shoulders and presses lightly on the back of his head. Derek’s body is warm and solid. Stiles’ free hand digs its way through Derek’s layers to lay flat against Derek’s and feel the rhythm of his breathing. It feels like the only certain thing. 

Needle sharp uncertainty digs itself back into Stiles’ brain. Lydia’s words from earlier have finally clicked into place.

“It’s not the first time.” 

Derek’s chest stills under him, his voice terse, “You’ve been shot before?” 

Stiles shakes his head wearily, “No, the attack. Your house was targeted the night we met.” 

Which is a trite way of putting their first meeting. Derek’s fingertips curl around the hair on the back of Stiles’ neck with just enough pressure to be distracting. Stiles pulls back. There’s a wet spot where his face had pressed into Derek’s suit, but it’s the least of the damage done to the torn fabric. 

“How would you know?”

“Lydia,” Stiles tilts his head towards the front seat and Derek hums darkly. Stiles licks his bottom lip, the gut wrenching hollowness he’s been trying to outrun for years catching in his throat to work and making it hard for the words to come out, “Is that why…” 

Is that why Derek left him? 

It’s the same question he’d bit back on the sofa, and it’s been echoing louder in his mind since Lydia spoke to him, but he hasn’t decided which answer he wants to hear so he lets the question trail away and hopes Derek didn’t catch the tight words. Hope is a stupid thing, and right now Stiles wants desperately to hold onto it for a little longer. 

The car rolls to a stop. 

“Derek, a word if you mind.” Lydia is gone without waiting for a response. 

Derek’s face hardens. Stiles fully pulls back so they’re out of eachothers space. He waits enough that Stiles could repeat his attempt of a question if he wants to. But he doesn’t really want to. Derek follows Lydia. Second later a pair of keys fly into Stiles' lap before the door shuts. Stiles scowls to hide his begrudging curl of amusement. 

Stiles sits back fully in the leather with a pained sigh and wearily takes stock of their surroundings through the tinted window. The space is still empty but for the car he’s in and the two men several yards away, the outer walls too shadowed to make out the distance of. It’s the imitation batcave Lahey dumped him in four days ago. Damn. Has it only been four days? He leans his forehead against the cool glass. The pain in his side is throbbing instead of sharp, and without the flush of adrenaline it’s starting to radiate a deep ache along his side, sucking his energy. 

He doesn’t give into it, he’s tired, but he’s also tired of being in the dark. Slowly he clicks open the car door and lets it crack open just enough to let the voices of the two arguing men ring clear. 

“You’re not thinking it through. I don’t have to tell you for the thousandth time, the bigger you are the more you’re worth dead.”

“This has always been the plan.”

“Not now, not this way. We were going to cut off the head and keep the body running. A proper mutiny.”

“Never would have worked and you know it. You can’t buy loyalty.”

“It would have worked long enough.” Lydia growls, a hand flying into the air, “Better than this cocked up mess you’ve got us in over some-”

“Don’t.”

Derek’s voice sends ice shooting up Stiles’ spine. 

Lydia huffs and paces with hands on her hips, jacket flared out. 

A bass note vibrates the floor as one of the walls moves. Stiles tenses. Another car, sleek and silver, glides in. The wall replaces itself as the driver pops open their door and climbs out. Stiles curses his own surprise when the sunglasses lift to reveal Liam, boyish smile firmly in place despite his clothes being ripped and bloody. 

Liam doesn’t move until Lydia tilts her head toward the car Stiles is in, and it’s so small a movement to catch from this far away but Stiles still sees Lydia’s limbs loosen the moment their eyes meet. Then she’s turning back to Derek. 

“What were you gonna do if I hadn’t made contact already? Two weeks ago there’s no way I could have supplied the demand you’ll be facing.”

That catches Stiles’ attention, another piece of the puzzle slotting together. Lydia’s old money, anyone could see it in the family crest she wears on her finger and the drive to her property lined with oaks older than Stiles’ nan. That’s the thing about narcotics, they’ve been around so long as people have been miserable, and like money they always had to come from somewhere. No doubt Lydia’s throne is built on the sufferings high. She’s the supplier, the financial backer, the tit to Derek’s distributing, profit making tat. 

“I trusted you’d find a way.” Derek shrugs languidly. 

“Fuck the trust, you owe me.” Lydia steps closer and jabs a finger towards Derek in accusation.

“Is that so?” 

The woman steps back so the two can size each other up. Stiles feels an invisible hand suffocating him with the sudden tension. The two had been close at the party, seemed comfortable with each other in a way Stiles hadn’t seen from Derek around anyone else, but now he keeps his eyes on Lydia’s hands expecting her to pull a weapon. His breath catches at sudden movement, but it’s only Lydia pointing accusingly and scowling at Derek. 

“You better have a fantastic pool boy uniform.” 

Stiles slumps with relief. 

The door across the back bench opens and startles Stiles from his eavesdropping, a flash of pain echoing from his injury at the movement. Bouncy hair first, Liam’s gangly limbs somehow pile into the back seat. His grin is wide and genuine when it meets Stiles’.

“Mom and dad fighting again?” Then he catches sight of Stiles' bloody side and his smile wipes completely off. “Shit, are you okay?” 

“Do I look alright to you, dude?”

The tone is a little harsh for the genuine concern on Liam’s face, but Stiles thinks he’s earned the right to be pissed, if not at the kid then the world in general. The day has been playing with his emotions like a rubber band.

“They’re not gonna take long, promise. Derek’ll take care of you quick.”

“He can keep his filthy paws away from me, thanks. I rather doubt he cares if I bleed out.” 

Liam startles away from him at the harsh words. His lips mimic a goldfish before the words spill out.

“Of course he cares, you’re Stiles.” Liam says with too much vehemence, like that’s supposed to mean something Stiles doesn’t have the mental capacity to unpack right now. 

Stiles looks away instead of responding. They sit in a tense silence in the back seat. Lydia and Derek’s voices are low rumbles and Stiles could make sense of if he tried hard enough, but his eyes are starting to droop no matter how wide he tries to press them open. In short time he slumps against the door.

A gentle hand eases him away from the window and Stiles’ weight falls gently on something warm on his other side. It’s not until he hears a click that he registers he’s been buckled in and he’s curled himself against someone. A flash of embarrassment jolts Stiles with enough energy to try leaning the other way, berating himself for somehow falling asleep on the kid of all people. 

A broad hand returns to his shoulder and keeps him from going too far. A deep hum hushes him. Then the heavy scent of pine and lavender licks into his mind. Stiles squints open his eyes enough to see the profile of Liam sitting in the front seat, a slim hand with a single gold ring placed heavily in his lap like it belongs. The world outside is a blur. 

Stiles doesn’t know how he missed the round of musical chairs it must have taken to get everyone sorted, or when the car started moving. It’s slightly alarming. Or rather, he can acknowledge the fact he should be alarmed, but at the moment he’s unable to feel anything but the soothing thrum of the road beneath him and the way his lungs are syncing to the steady beat of the heart under his ear.

Derek’s right. After a hot shower he dozes in for several long minutes, Stiles stands in front of the mirror and winces at the sight of his hip. There’s a decent amount of raw flesh and it stings like a bastard, but he’s going to be okay. 

Stiles is flat on his back on the sofa and staring at the ceiling. There’s some mid-morning match on the tv he’s paying no attention to because they’re not teams he has enough respect to watch. If you look for them, there are clues to whatever happened yesterday. A few patches where the drywall is wet. Tiny shards of glass under a number of windows clearer than the rest. Newer. And from where Stiles is sprawled on his back he sees a spot on the ceiling where someone missed two drops of blood. He looks at them so long his vision blurs. 

The house has been empty since he woke, something he’s not too upset over. Stiles’ stomach rolls with embarrassment at the memory of the day before, the way he’d completely lost his composure. Yet, beneath the embarrassment there’s something else, something not sitting right. What is Derek playing at? 

Perhaps his inflated ego made him see Stiles as nothing more than a scared child, he sure as hell treated him like one when he’d all but tossed him into the car. Stiles could understand the instinct to comfort kids, but maybe it’s more. There could be an ulterior motive behind the softness Derek had shown, and the chance of the unknown leaves a bitter taste in Stiles’ mouth. It’s worsened by the narrowest sliver of hope Derek had comforted Stiles for no other reason than because he wanted to. 

Stiles rolls onto his front and groans into the couch cushion. Mind games aren’t Stiles’ thing, he’s already made it clear if Derek has something to say he should be up front about it. He just wants the week to be over.

The sound of heels in the hall makes Stiles spring upright. Suddenly the match on screen is the most interesting thing he’s ever seen. He keeps his eyes glued to the small figures running on the green and valiantly tries to ignore the way his nerves stand on end like they’re electrified by the presence he feels behind him. It’s fear, he tells himself. The reason his heart is pounding in his chest is the fear of having his back turned to an animal as dangerous as a prowling wolf. 

Derek steps into his peripheral at the other side of the sofa. 

“Do you know what I like most about you?”

Stiles shifts a weary look and immediately looks away. He’s not quick enough to hide his shock. Decorating the tight trousers and low cut shirt and the great expanse of Derek’s bare chest is a bold splash of blood. Likely not his, considering the smirk and relaxed stance. Stiles keeps his eyes glued to the screen until they burn. 

“How much it pisses you off.” 

Stiles can’t help it now, his confusion waylaying any attempt of focus. 

“What are you rambling about?” He props himself on his elbows so he’s not completely prone. 

Derek’s grin is near manic, an alarming fact given his current state. Gone is the reserved man sipping cocoa, in his place is a feral creature. Stiles’ eyes keep catching on the solid planes of his pec muscles shifting with a sheen of sweat and blood. He grinds his jaw and sits up fully so his feet touch the floor, his focus solidly on Derek’s eyes as the man walks forward. 

Hands on his hips, Derek doesn’t stop until between Stiles’ legs with his crotch unashamedly on display at eye level. He smells strongly of sweat and cologne. Stiles glares and Derek’s smile grows delighted. 

“It makes you angry, the way you want me.” Stiles’ face twists into a scowl as Derek chuckles, “It’s okay little fox. I don’t touch things that bite.”

Stiles should be scared by the obvious way bloodshed has brought Derek into a twisted good mood, practically drunk on it. He should be frightened by the reappearance of the cocky asshole he’d always thought Derek to be. Instead he clenches his thighs to keep himself seated and fights to maintain eye contact. 

“I don’t touch things covered in blood.” Stiles spits.

He makes a dire mistake. His control lapses for a split second, but that’s all it takes. Derek hums, dancing out of reach now he’s apparently had his fun. 

“Don’t lie to yourself, darling. You don’t care about the blood half as much as you wish you did.” He calls over his shoulder while strutting down the hall. 

Stiles closes his eyes and knocks his head onto the sofa. It’s no use. Burned onto the back of his eyelids is the defined outline of Derek’s cock in tight pants. Stiles’ fists clench the meat of his thighs to keep from touching himself. He exhales a long, deep breath. 

His footsteps are heavy with anger when he rises and marches the same path Derek took down the hall. Behind him his door slams. He’s not angry Derek’s playing some new perverted game with him. He’s angry because Derek is right. 

The hot water bill is going to be through the roof, but if one man can afford it, it’s Derek Fucking Hale. 

The dresser in Stiles’ room keeps accumulating clothes. Given what Derek wears, Stiles is rather thankful for whatever ounce of sense convinced the man to provide Stiles with rather mundane t-shirts and joggers. There are even a pair of basic black swim trunks. Stiles eyes them now.

There are only so many reruns he can watch. Derek left shortly after he swanned around, surely he’ll remain out stealing babies or whatnot until the evening. Perhaps swimming isn’t the smartest thing to be doing with a gouge in his side, but Stiles does a fine job of using half a roll of waterproof medical tape he found in the toilet to seal the bandages over his wound. It’ll have to do. 

The shorts, like everything else Stiles has worn here, are a size too big. They ride low on his hips in a way he might be bothered by if he was with his dad, but they stay on while he tries to find the indoor pool. Twice he loses his way. Not bothering to track down the light switch Stiles nears the edge with only underwater pool lights rippling around the shadows. 

The water is on the brink of being chilled. His skin pebbles at first touch but he pushes himself to dunk his head. With a gasp he resurfaces, his body momentarily shocked by the quick change in temperature, before he kicks off into a front crawl. Water parts around him. His arms work in time with his lungs to keep him afloat and moving forward. He dives down and kicks off the far wall to start a new lap. Time disappears in the water. Nothing exists but the motion of his body, a rhythm of air in his lungs and his hands piercing the surface to a three time beat he doesn’t hear, but feels. 

At some point he lifts his head to breathe when he catches sight of something that shouldn’t be there. His head returns underwater before he really worries about what it was, his mind giving him the answer but not letting him think about it. He’s got seven laps left in his set and he sinks deeper into his rhythm to cover the emotions trying to distract his focus. 

Stroke. Stroke. Breathe. 

Stroke. Stroke Breathe. Flip.

On the last lap of his set his hand arcs to slap the edge of the pool instead of water. He surfaces from the trance swimming put him in and lifts himself to sit on the edge, panting heavily. Damn. Too long since he’s had time to do a proper work out. 

He shakes his head to spray out the worst of the water, then flips it back with a hand to keep it slicked out of his face. Without anything left to occupy him, his gaze drifts to the man sitting by his left. Derek leans back on his hands, legs paddling gently in the water and leading up to a pair of trunks so short his pale thighs are bare. It’s obvious he utilises the pool or other means to keep in shape.

Stiles has something wicked poised on his tongue when his eyes finish their journey up Derek’s body and land on his face. It’s unashamedly staring back at him, but without the leer Stiles expected. Derek’s looking at Stiles like he’s looking for something. 

“You’re an athlete.” Derek states, not a question. It knocks whatever Stiles was going to say right out of his mouth.

“Was.” Stiles looks down the lane of the pool to the other side. “Or was going to be.” 

He doesn’t know why he’s talking about it. The life he could have had, the one he would have if he was nothing but a twenty two year old with no responsibilities, running around with Scott on the pitch at Keepmoat. 

“It is Scott then,” Stiles’ head snaps up at the name and worries for a split second about mind reading before he rules it out as absurd and Derek keeps on, “he’s the one who got you in contact with Isaac.” 

“Isaac?”

“Isaac Lahey.”

Stiles’ mind stumbles over the fact Lahey has another name, like a real person, before the implications drop in place. 

“How the fuck could you possibly know that?”

Derek’s brow creases like he can’t understand Stiles’ anger, “He hasn’t told you?”

Stiles’ mind whirls. All he can think of is how Scott had insisted Derek was trustworthy. Clearly there was more to the story. 

“You’ve met Scott?” 

Immediately Stiles knows his surprise has made Derek suspicious by the way he eyes him. 

He answers slowly, “I gather you aren’t the only one with secrets, sweetheart.”

The phone call with Scott had hinted at the possibility, but it had been so absurd Stiles hadn’t truly considered it. He doesn’t like the way he’s starting to question the most reliable person in his life, especially when the most chaotic person is the one causing it. Scott doesn’t keep secrets. Not from Stiles. 

Derek doesn’t give him too long to sit on it before asking, “What kept you from joining the team?”

The question does the job of knocking Stiles off track, and perhaps the reason he answers is because he’s a bit desperate for the change in topic so he doesn’t have to address the ache in his chest. 

“Players aren’t paid enough right off the bat. Would take too long, and my dad needs me around.” 

A shitty reason really, when he risked losing him everyday. But he wanted to be able to pay for the fancy cut bacon, buy him the nice shirts and shoes for Christmas, to have time to sit back and watch a baseball game together in the evenings. He made the impulse decision, like he always fucking does, and once the money started coming in from drug running it was too hard to leave such a good paying job that left him enough time to be the big brother he wanted to be. 

“Your loyalty is admirable.”

“What?” Stiles nearly falls into the pool. 

“Do you truly think I don’t have ears in the police commission? I keep an eye on my employees, I saw your statement the moment it was filed.” 

He’d assumed Derek never heard his name before seeing him on the cement of the garage. Formalities hadn’t been something to come up when they first met. Stiles hadn’t even known who Derek was until he saw the article about his rising power weeks after. Stiles’ stomach squeezes, both with the thought Derek’s known the entire time who Stiles was and at the memory of his morning spent at the precinct. The words he’d said. 

“You’re not a piss stain.” 

“What a compliment.” Derek murmurs in a tone not quite lighthearted. His head drops back to look at the watery light reflected on the ceiling. 

“You’re not what I expected.” Stiles admits quietly, but enough for Derek to look at him with eyes that seem hungry for his words. Stiles meets his gaze. “You’re human.” 

He lifts himself to stand and pad away before he does something stupid like pushing Derek Hale into a pool of water so he doesn’t have to see the open look on his face. He doesn’t think about how even half naked as Derek had been, for once Stiles had been more focused on the most interesting part of him. His eyes. 

Derek is absent for the next two days. Stiles doesn’t hear his footsteps in the hall or see a single dish by the sink as evidence the man ever steps foot in the house. There’s only one day left in the week and Stiles tries to convince himself the itch under his skin is impatience to leave this prison of a house. Not worry. 

Would anyone even know he was here? How long would it take until he knew? Surely Lydia wouldn’t be enough of a dick to forget about him if Derek… if he never returned. 

Stiles spends several hours silently freaking out. Then he goes for a long swim and doesn’t, does not, feel disappointed when he finishes twice as many laps as the day before and remains alone in the pool. There’s nothing he can immediately do about it, they didn’t talk about the possibility of something like this happening and now Stiles thinks that was a really fucking big oversite. Shoving his damp body back into loose clothes he reasons with himself. He’ll stay out the rest of the week in the big empty house and have his full melt-down on the last day if the situation calls for it. 

Several hours of laying motionless in bed, he finally admits sleep is a lost cause. With a sigh he pushes the heavy duvet off. He tracks his way in the dark to the living room, navigating easily through the corridors of the large house. He flicks on the telly to reruns of old lax games and lowers the volume to one little notch, just enough to know someone’s commentating but not quite enough to follow what they’re saying. A jersey number catches his eye. Usually he’s pleased to see the bold ‘MCCALL’ above number eleven. Now it makes him squirrely. 

He taps on the phone in his hand to bring up their limited conversation, Scott telling him short stories about the goings on at home and a few forwarded photos from the group chat Stiles has spent too much time staring at. They look happy. Stiles locks his phone and tosses it into a cushion. He’ll talk with Scott after the week is over, or maybe he won't. Maybe he’ll just put it all out of his mind and move on to a life where he never has to think about it. 

A noise in the hallway wakes him. He’s still on the sofa with a spot of drool on the pillow under his head, the light of the telly- and good god, is that golf? Disgusting- the only light to see by. Slowly, Stiles sits up and rubs at his eyes. He makes it halfway down the hall before he finds the mass of shadow that must be Derek. 

“Is it done?”

It’s not the only thing Stiles wants to ask, but it is the most important one. The shadow turns, the movement of broad shoulders the most obvious tell when there’s literally zero light to see by. 

“Yes. You’ll be home in the morning.” Derek’s voice is short. Tight. 

Stiles peers at him in the pitch black corridor. It’s hard to see with so little light, but he could swear… he thinks… he rubs his left eye again just to be sure. Derek’s in a plain black t-shirt. Not silk, no ruffles, just a normal cotton black shirt. In the silence Derek runs a hand through his hair and his _hands_. They’re bare, no rings in sight. Just strong, calloused fingers threaded through Derek’s curls like he’s used to them being longer, like when Stiles knew him before. Without the usual flair he doesn’t look like some ethereal myth. He looks like a tangible man within Stiles’ reach. 

Fuck. Stiles always was impulsive. He takes a step forward. 

“I won’t bite.” 

Derek’s hand stills in his hair and Stiles' eye is caught by the veins standing out in relief on his powerful forearms. Derek’s muscles are rigid for a moment before they melt into fluid movement. There’s little warning before he’s close enough for Stiles to breathe in. Their chests skim against each other. The heat of Derek is a fire Stiles wants to throw himself into, burns be damned. 

“You are very tempting, little fox,” their noses brush feather light and Stiles aches to push onto his toes and close the gap, “but I must decline.” 

Dry lips brush quickly against Stiles’ cheek before Derek’s hands push Stiles’ hips into the wall. The man uses Stiles’ unbalanced moment to step out of reach. When he speaks again he’s nearly made it to the end of the hall and his tone is sobering. 

“You do not want a starving man with your name on his lips. Especially if the man is myself.” 

Derek’s obscure form disappears into the shadow of the night. Stiles braces himself against the wall and shudders. He reaches down to adjust himself through the soft joggers.

“Fuck.” He whimpers under his breath.

He returns to his room by touch in the dark. Only when he arrives does he remember it’s not really his room. It’s one of many in the vast depths of this empty mansion in possession of a singular man. A hook tethered in Stiles’ belly wrenches painfully at the thought of his family. Derek told him the deal was done, nothing will change between now and a few hours when the sun comes up. Stiles can’t spend a second more in this place. 

He closes the door to the bedroom and returns to the sofa, the telly still amusing itself. As the line connects Stiles speaks in a steady voice. 

“Scott, I need another favour.” 

Stiles thanks small mercies it’s much easier to leave Derek’s fortress than it is to enter. The halls are still dark as he winds through them. He doesn’t try particularly hard to be quiet, but his sock feet barely make noise regardless. There’s nothing wrong about what he’s doing. No reason to be sneaking around. Goosebumps still pebble along his arms with a jitteriness similar to how he felt sneaking past his dad as a teen. 

The lump in his stomach isn’t guilt. He’s got no reason to feel guilty for doing exactly what Derek’s done before. 

The stillness of the night is a little eerie, the sound of his feet softly striking the ground out of place. He keeps going. He doesn’t need a code to open the gate from the inside, and besides his phone he leaves the property with nothing but joggers and a baggy shirt to his name. Like he promised to be, Scott’s idling two blocks away. Stiles doesn’t fully realise what he’s done until he’s sitting his ass down in the passenger seat. He stares blankly through the windshield. 

“Not yet.” Stiles says to stave off any questions. He’s not ready to have any form of conversation just yet. 

Scott’s heavy gaze eventually rolls off of Stiles’ face and the car slides into gear. Stiles’ fists turn white when Scott takes a corner a little too fast. Scott doesn’t say anything, but the needle on the speedometer noticeably lowers. He’s a good friend like that. 

At some point Stiles stops thinking about getting further from Derek and more about getting closer to home. His leg bounces restlessly. Everyone thought he was on a work trip, his last point of contact being a quick text saying he didn’t have time to get an extended phone plan before he left. Really he hadn't wanted to struggle telling more lies. He hasn’t seen anything but the rare photo and short text from Scott. It’s only been a week, but damn. He misses his family. 

The clock on the dash glows 2:04 as the car eases to a stop. Stiles’ family home sits snugly among the neighbourhood Stiles could walk blind. He’s halfway out the door when he cranks himself over to meet Scott’s face for the first time that night. 

“Come by in the morning, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Scott’s mouth twitches with a small smile matching his tone. 

Stiles shuts the car door gently. 

In the dark he fumbles the spare key duct taped to the bottom of a long-dead-plant holder. Frustration builds when he has to dig it up from where he drops it in the dry dirt. Finally his fingers catch on the smooth metal and after the snick of the latch he eases his way into the house. The smell of Dad’s microwaved meal loosens his shoulders. 

With every step further into the house his eyes grow heavier until he lands face down in his bed, too exhausted from the past seven days to manage lifting the covers. Within two slow breaths he’s blissfully asleep. 

Slamming wakes him. The kitchen cupboards, top left. No, right. Where his dad’s favourite mug is stored. Stiles groans into his pillow for less than a second before he’s pushing himself to his feet and stumbling into the hallway. 

He manages enough energy to call out, “Daddy-o!” 

He manages to flop onto his dad’s back and receives a chuckle and a few pats in return. 

“Son, good to have you home again.” 

Stiles leans back against one of the countertops so he can see his dad’s face. It’s a little faded with age, but his cheeks still hold colour and his eyes are bright when they look at Stiles fondly. Over his shoulder Stiles catches sight of Scott leaning against the wall. 

“Nice to be back. Don’t think I won't be inspecting the grill for recent usage.” 

Faster than he can blink his dad’s smile turns into a frown. Stiles pats him on the shoulder and whisks past him, motioning to Scott to follow him through the front door. 

“Worst. Son. Ever.” His dad mutters behind him. It makes Stiles glow with fondness. 

He dims the moment his eyes turn to Scott’s on the front porch. They hug with a pat on the back in a familiar way, another notch loosening in Stiles’ spine. Despite whatever secrets he’s hiding, Stiles fucking missed his best friend. 

“I kept the groceries stocked so he didn’t have an excuse to pick up anything at the store.” 

Stiles runs a hand through his own hair and huddles close to speak with Scott without his dad hearing. Texting didn’t cut it when Stiles needed to have a proper freakout with the one person he could talk freely with. 

“Thank you, Scott. I don’t know what I would have done, it was- I fucked up. What the fuck was I thinking pulling that shit?” 

“It’s my fault, I should have never-”

“No. I put you all in danger. First it was the police and then the knife, holy shit, I’d be dead if-”

“Stiles?”

Stiles bites his tongue, Scott’s eyes widening in a mimic of his own. Fuck. 

“Hey Ally,” Stiles turns with a shaky smile, his eyes damp from the stage-whispered word vomit he’d been spilling to Scott and he hopes she writes it off as fallout from the emotional welcome. She’s hesitating behind them at the end of the bottom steps of the porch. There’s a blue circle on the wood next to her feet from Scott and Stiles’ first and only adventure with spray paint. 

“Scott mentioned you were back today?” She says flitting between the two with a confused look. “Are you okay?” 

“Of course.” He laughs like the question is silly. Of course. 

“It’s just… those aren’t your clothes, and your face… “ She winces and oh yeah, Stiles nearly forgot the shiner Lahey graced him with, “And you left pretty abruptly.” 

She meets his eyes then with the bright intelligence of someone who won't be lied to. He needs a little longer until he can manage following through with that though, and he’s still got Scott hovering beside him. One thing at a time. 

“I’ll tell you everything, I swear it, but right now I need a good shower and hot coffee. Just let me have a little time, yeah?” 

“Okay.” she dithers, then launches herself into his arms. “Missed you.”

“Don’t think I won't be interrogating you about Erica later.” 

She scoffs and turns away, attitude back in place. Stiles sighs and looks back to Scott, his entire demeanor changing. 

“He knew you.” Stiles accuses without wasting time. 

Scott looks at the neighbourhood around them uneasily. There’s a flush to his cheeks he only gets when he’s nervous. 

“I think you need to spend a night with your dad, in your own home, before we talk about it. Just, take a day to settle in a bit you know? Then text me?” 

Stiles narrows his eyes. Something behind Scott’s puppy dog pout makes him want to demand answers immediately, but there’s truth to his friend’s words. Stiles could use some time to digest everything that’s happened before he throws himself into more chaos. 

“You bet your ass I will.” He promises. 

Scott bumps him fondly as he passes. He stops with one foot out the door and looks over his shoulder. 

“I’d do anything for you. You know that, yeah?” 

Stiles nods his head, caught off guard by a swell of emotion lodging itself in his throat. Trust Scott? Always.

“Yeah.” 

Scott nods, “All right then.”

He pats Stiles on the shoulder and closes the door gently. 

Stiles swallows thickly and physically shakes himself out of it. He has other important matters at hand. 

“Okay, dad. Moment of truth!” 

He turns into the doorway and relishes his dad's long-suffering sigh. This is where he needs to be. This is where he belongs. 

Stiles wakes habitually at the ass crack of dawn. He makes himself a coffee and huddles in his favourite burgundy hoodie at the kitchen table, rubbing his thumb over a mark in the aged wood from his childhood temper. The house wakes slowly around him, little sounds of life stirring until one by one they trail in and out of the kitchen. Stiles puts together a full breakfast when he finds the fridge stuffed, no doubt thanks to Scott.

He gives Allison a text and invites her for a fourth attempt at coffee. This time they actually make it. 

She doesn’t poke at him about the random disappearance or injuries, and she flushes tellingly when he brings up Erica. They’ve exchanged numbers. The fact makes Stiles whoop so loudly other people in the cafe give him annoyed glances, but come on. This move was months in the making! 

He smiles about it the entire walk home, happy for his friend. 

Scott’s on the step when Stiles trots up the garden path. The warmth of the morning fades quickly at the sight of him. He follows into the house and Stiles resumes his favourite seat at the right hand of the kitchen table, Scott taking the chair across from him. Yesterday had done Stiles good. Grounded him like he needed to be for this conversation. Or so he thought. 

“Do you remember Paige?”

Stiles purses his lips, blowing out his cheeks. Sure, that was one way to start. 

“The girl who shattered your heart into a million pieces and made you swear off relationships for the rest of your life? That Paige?” 

Scott winces. Stiles feels a twinge of guilt, but he’s full of jitters about where this is going to go and Scott brought her up in the first place. 

“Yeah, but like. Do you actually remember meeting her, in person?”

Stiles narrows his eyes, wondering how this is going to link up to Derek Hale. He plays along and tries to remember the girl. Scott’s shown him a photo or two, must have at some point because Stiles has a vague face to put to the name, but she’d been around at the same time Stiles was a little busy selling himself on street corners and sleeping through the day.

“No.” He admits. 

Scott nods, “That’s because she doesn’t exist.” 

Stiles falters, the rug pulled from under him. “What do you mean? You’ve been faking heartache for- for attention or something?”

“No, the heartache was real, but it wasn’t over Paige.” 

Scott’s mouth works without noise for a moment and Stiles waits patiently for whatever it is that has him so caught up. Scott always did get a little emotional whenever his relationship with Paige was mentioned, which was why Stiles tended not to mention it. 

“It was Isaac.”

“Isaac?” Stiles asks with an odd sense of dejavu. 

“Isaac Lahey? Your boss?”

No. It’s a joke. A really fucking unfunny joke. Scott’s looking at him imploringly like Stiles could ever forget the fucker and shit, what a-

“The very same Isaac Lahey that nearly killed me in an alley?”

Scott winces. “I’m sure he was just trying to scare you, he wouldn’t have-”

“He pulled a knife on me!” 

“Well I haven’t seen him in a while now, have I?” Scott raises his voice to match Stiles’ but is quick to deflate. He runs a shaky hand over his short hair with a quiet curse. 

Stiles tries to wrap his mind around it. He can’t. The inside of his head is just a spinning wheel of death. He pushes forward, hoping skipping over this Everest of a road bump will provide more answers than questions. 

“Okay. So you and Lah- Isaac, jesus.” Stiles shakes his head and blinks in hopes it’ll ward off any sort of mental image from manifesting in his brain. “And why didn’t you tell me?” 

“He’s a man.” 

“Okay.” Stiles nods, familiar with the concept. 

Scott’s eyes bug out. 

“No, not okay!” And he looks completely panicked about it while Stiles is left feeling like he’s missed something. 

“I’m lost.”

Scott looks at him like he’s an idiot, thin lips and hard eyes. 

“Stiles, I’m on one of the largest teams of my sport.”

“There are several out men in the league,” Stiles shrugs.

“But I’m not gay! Not- there’s nothing wrong with homosexuality, Stiles, but men don’t do it for me. I love women, legitimately love them. When it’s Scott-alone-time it’s all women. Isaac’s just-” He holds his hands in front of him like his palms hold whatever definition there is for Isaac Lahey, a frustrated sound coming from the back of his throat. “It doesn’t matter. I was with him, and he’s friends with Derek so he was around. Now you know.”

Stiles blinks. Squints. 

“You’re kind of a dickwad,” Scott frowns as Stiles continues, “You really think I would have been upset you were with a guy?” 

“No. I thought you’d be more upset the guy was part of a mob-” Scott cuts himself off and looks away, leaning back from the crouched position they’d both taken over the table. 

Stiles purses his lips. He doesn’t care what Scott was going to say, he’s still pissed his best friend thought he couldn’t tell him something like this. Scott nudged Stiles in Isaac’s direction after the ‘Paige’ mess started, which meant they’d already split by the time Stiles started working with the guy. He wonders if Scott would have told him if they’d still been together. 

“Is that why he’s hated me this whole fucking time? Because you and I are buddies?” 

Scott shrugs, looking uncomfortably guilty. “Probably.” 

Stiles taps his fingers along the counter as he rearranges his perspective on every interaction he’s had with Lahey. He still hates the guy. In fact, he might hate him more given the state Scott was in over everything that went down during the breakup. 

“Is there anything else?” 

“Like what?” 

Stiles spreads his hands out, “I don’t know, like you’re secretly the Prince of Genovia or something?”

Scott rolls his eyes, “No. Everything I told you about Paige, it all happened more or less with Isaac. He’s the only guy, we met at some stupid posh party some of the team was at and he was there with Derek.”

Stiles hums, “Yeah, I went to one of such parties recently. That’s where things went tits up.” 

He tells Scott a brief recap of what happened between the stupid pink sunglasses and yesterday morning. Scott butts in with occasional questions and exclamations. Stiles doesn’t mention his first time meeting Derek, or the rejection on the last night. 

They hug at the door, Stiles on his tiptoes to wind his arms around Scott’s hunched shoulders. He’ll address Scott’s obvious sexuality crisis later. Right now Stiles still needs some time to sort his own life out. 

“I’m not very happy with you right now, but you’re still my best friend, y’know?” 

His words are muffled into Scott’s shirt. Scott pats his back and they part. 

“Yeah, I know. See ya soon, Stiles.”

Stiles gets a job. He doesn’t immediately need a job thanks to the final pay cheque from Derek that finds its way to his doorstep, but the cash won't last forever and he needs to spend his days doing something. He’s a lifeguard at the local swimming pool because even if he’s more partial to lax, life guard pays more than any assistant coach job he could get without going back to school. He tells his Dad he got a large severance from the fake conference-holding job so he can cut back on the double-shifts and spend more time doing what he likes. Whatever that is. 

Two weeks after his career change Stiles feels tentatively stable, happy even. Free. 

For the first time since they met years ago. Stiles doesn’t keep looking over his shoulder thinking Derek Hale wants something from him, so that is the exact moment Derek Hale appears. Of a sort. 

It starts, as every day does, with a chaotic morning in the Stilinski household.

“Hey, that’s mine you dirty rascal.” Stiles tugs the hood of the burgundy hoodie Allison pilfered. He left it sitting on the back of his chair while using the cafe restroom. 

She turns on him with wide eyes. 

“Stiles! Come one, it looks great with my new boots.” 

Stiles narrows his eyes at her brown leather knee highs. She’s right, it does look rather good, but he’s not going to say such. He flips the hood up and pulls the strings so it’s low on her face. 

“There, an improvement.” 

“Jerk.”

“Meanie” Stiles jokingly imitates her scowl. 

They pick up their things and head for the door, leaving the comfortable cushioned seats for the bright morning sidewalk. It’s not actually cold out, Stiles will survive the walk home just fine without the sweater. 

“I can return it tonight?” 

“Got a shift in the evening, actually.” Stiles wrinkles his nose at the thought as he kicks the door open for her to follow him out. 

Allison hums to acknowledge his pain. They part quickly, Allison rushing off to work and Stiles with his hands deep in his pockets on a slow stroll back to his house. 

On his return he picks up the dishes from the earlier breakfast. Over the sink he chats with his dad about some cranky old fart he has to deal with at work while he gets ready to meet his buddies for lunch. It seems like the first time in years Stiles has seen his dad leave the house in something other than a security officers uniform. No doubt he feels the same, and he’s buoyant with excitement about an occasion for day beers. Stiles is momentarily struck with an overwhelming love for his dad and how hard he had to work to keep their little life going since Stiles was a kid. He squeezes him tight before he leaves. 

“Love ya, pops.” 

His dad steps out with his hands patting his pockets to check over their contents. 

“Love ya,” his dad replies over the top of the car. 

Once the door closes behind him the house is silent. Not in an eerie way like a mansion he keeps thinking of. Even without his friends and dad stomping around, the evidence of their existence is so boldly splashed across every square metre it’s evident the house is not vacant, simply waiting to be filled once more. 

Stiles indulges in an excellent jerk-off session where he most definitely doesn’t think about Derek, nor does he think about him in the following hot shower with the water pressure of a dripping faucet. Afterwards he settles onto the couch. He’ll have to change for his shift later in the day, but until then he plans to be an absolute potato. 

His butt is on the squishy cushion for less than five minutes when a key turns the front door lock. Stiles frowns and starts to sit up when a bone chilling sound freezes him. Someone is sobbing. 

Stiles scrambles towards the door and nearly crashes into Allison in the hall. She throws herself at him in an absolute fit, sobbing so loud he can barely see. His arms automatically hold her tight. She’s trying to say something but having too much trouble breathing and crying to be coherent. 

“Allison, hey Ally, breathe for me,” He soothes, swaying her in place the way mom used to do for him. 

Motion catches his eye over Allison’s shoulder. Out of the entryway steps Isaac Lahey. 

“The fuck are you doing here?” Stiles hisses.

Isaac’s face is pinched, his brooding figure clashing amongst the cheery household. Stiles' arms cinch around his friend.

Isaac inclines his head to Allison in Stiles’ arms, “We can speak once she’s calmed.” 

Stiles wants to fight it, wants to know what happened, but he doesn’t want to distress Allison anymore than she already is. He settles for glaring at Isaac over Allison’s shoulder and rubbing her back. 

“C’mon love, let’s get you a tea, ya?” He’s just about to lead her into the kitchen when the front door opens and freezes them all. 

“Stiles do you know where my-” His dad stops when he enters with his mouth still open, taking in Allison crying in Stiles’ chest and the man before her. 

His dad’s eyes grow large and Stiles would laugh at the matching look of surprise on Isaac’s face if he thought anything about this was funny. 

“Who’s this?” 

Allison, who’d slowly been settling, starts a second wave of crying. 

Stiles tries to use his eyes to communicate with Isaac, but he doesn’t know if he’s trying to say ‘fuck you’ or ‘help me.’

Dad is quick to take over the Allison situation. He swallows her in a proper Dad-hug and leads her into the kitchen for a tea while keeping an eye on Isaac like he’s a wild animal. Before his dad has a chance to start on a tirade about their scowling company Stiles grabs Isaac by the arm and drags him out of the house.

They burst into the front yard and Stiles turns on Isaac. 

“What the fuck happened?” He hisses in an attempt to keep his voice too low for his dad to hear. 

“She was wearing your hoodie,” Isaac accuses, like that explains everything. 

“So?” 

“They thought she was you.” 

Rage burns behind his eyes and Stiles shoves Isaac in the chest, “I thought he said it was handled, that was the point-”

Isaac shoves him back, “He took down an entire syndicate, you think people aren’t gonna be pissed about it?”

“An entire… ?” Stiles stumbles with horror. “I thought he was making a deal!”

Isaac looks at him like he thinks Stiles is particularly slow and okay, it’s not Stiles’ fucking fault no one tells him anything. Derek may have held the more valuable territory, but the Blakes were a huge organization for anyone. To have taken them all down in just one week should have been impossible. Stiles recalls the day Derek returned with the evidence of bloodshed, of two days he spent missing, of just how deep the shadows under his eyes had been on their parting. 

“Oh fuck,” Stiles crouches over with hands on his knees, overwhelmed by the extent of what Derek’s done. He’s gonna- he swallows down at just the right time to stop himself from puking. 

“No one touched a hair on her head, she’s all shook from seeing something unpleasant. I brought her right back here.” Isaac says, perhaps mistaking Stiles’ reaction for worry over Allison, which. Fuck, Allison. How could Stiles have let this happen? How useless did he have to be?

Stiles stands back upright, anger brushing aside his shock.

“Why were you there? Did you think she was me too?” Realisation dawns on him as he speaks. Of course Isaac thought she was him, why else would he have been there? “How long has he had me followed?” 

Isaac’s lips twitch in a grimace when Stiles meets his eye. 

“Since the first night.”

Ringing starts in Stiles’ ears. Three years. Derek’s had him followed. Derek’s known who and where he was this entire time, just like Stiles was always so paranoid about. 

Stiles takes his time to really look at the guy for the first time. A face so perfect you glaze over it, no crooked nose or disproportionate forehead to stick out. A face that could blend in beneath a cap. How many hours did he spend looking over his shoulder swearing he could feel eyes on him? How many times did Stiles walk right past him? 

Isaac Lahey. Suddenly Stiles remembers what he’d promised himself to do if he ever saw this ass again. 

Stiles swings. Isaac easily catches his wrist before the hit lands, but he doesn’t see the knee Stiles is quick to drive up into his crotch. Stiles watches him fold over with little satisfaction. It is a fraction of the pain he’s seen his best friend in since ‘Paige.’ Stiles wants nothing more than to break his pretty little face. 

“That’s for Scott, you fucking cunt.”

“Stiles,” Stiles twirls to find his dad hesitantly leaning in the sliver of the doorway. “Is your guest staying?” 

Stiles glares down at Isaac. 

“He was just leaving.” He calls out. 

His dad ducks back into the house with the screen door banging behind him. Stiles lowers his voice again to address the crouched man. 

“He swore you’d stay away from here. Both of you.”

“He’s protecting you, since you clearly need it.” Isaac says once he can stand straight. 

Stiles has started marching back to his door by then. He glares down from his front step, relishing the extra inches it gives him. 

“That’s not his place. Tell him I said back the fuck off.” 

He almost manages to duck inside when Isaac’s hand catches his arm with a severity Stiles has never seen. For the first time there’s no anger behind his words, just adamancy, 

“You can’t decide for him that you don’t matter. How do you expect someone to turn their back on what they value?” 

Stiles rips out of Isaac’s hold and turns his back. He speaks with his hand on the knob. 

“He’s made it clear how little he values me. I respected his decision to leave and I expect him to honour my own.” 

“You’re fucked if you think he’d do what he did for someone who doesn’t matter.” The back of Stiles’ neck tingles as the hairs there stand on end, “Sometimes keeping someone safe is more important than keeping their respect.” 

Stiles rips the door open. The second he’s in he slams it shut. Eyes squeezed closed he takes a deep breath and knocks his head back on the solid wood. Fucking Isaac Lahey. Fucking Derek Hale. 

No. No fucking Derek Hale, that’s exactly what got him in this mess. Stiles groans. He regrets every moment that led him to this point.

“Stiles?” 

Allison stands in front of him, arms crossed and looking more serious than he’s ever seen her be. 

“I told your Dad it was boy problems, got him to leave for his lunch.” 

Stiles feels a bit terrible for how relieved he is to hear those words. The last thing he could handle right now is his dad. Allison looks down and plays with the cuffs of the hoodie, a habit Stiles knows she got from him. 

“Will you tell me what’s going on now?” 

Stiles’ will dissolves, and with it himself. He slinks down to the floor in the entranceway with his legs sprawled. He’s pretty sure he’s about to lose any respect Allison has for him, but she deserves the truth. The full of it. 

“Yeah, c’mere.” 

He lifts his arm and she comes over to sit next to him, shuffling so they’re leaning into one another. His mind scours for a place to start while his hands idly brush over Allison’s hair. His voice is thick when he finds the words. 

“We all have choices.” 

When he’s done telling Allison everything but the super nitty details his throat is sore, both of their eyes are damp, and he’s thankful for once to have the rest of his family out of the house. This moment is between him and Allison. 

“I screwed up, Allison. I can’t believe you had to see that, I can’t ever make that right.”

“It’s not your fault.” She lifts up from his lap to face him properly, frowning when their eyes meet. “You sacrificed so much. Where do you think your dad would be if you hadn’t done all that? He might’ve lost the house, you might have been separated. It’s horrible what you had to do, but you did it for your family.” 

His feet window-wipe on the floor in front of him. Someone swept recently, they did a fast job of it and missed a line of dirt by his heels, but it’s the thought that counts. 

Stiles chews his lip. Allison’s right about the money being necessary, but there must have been a better way to earn it without putting them in danger. If only he’d been smarter in school so he could place better jobs, if only he learned how to keep his mouth shut so he didn’t lose the jobs he’d been able to get, if only he’d somehow pinched enough together to last through the scouting process in lacrosse. If only he’d made better choices. 

Enough about his woes. The self-pity can be tucked away in a box somewhere out of reach. 

Stiles tugs on Allison’s hand until their fingers thread together. Hers aren’t that much smaller than his. 

“Were you scared today?” 

She nods with watery eyes, lips trembling. 

“Were you?” He furrows his brow so she continues, “When he shot the woman in front of you?” 

Stiles squeezes her hand. 

“I was terrified.” He admits for the first time.

It’s rotten to think so, but he’s glad Allison knows everything now. Glad not to be so alone. She must sense how he’s feeling because the next thing he knows he’s got an armful of her and a faceful of his own hoodie. The hug is a comfort only found in family. 

“Sc- uh, Scott has terrible taste in men.” She pulls back with a wavy tug to her lips. 

A burst of blindsided laughter shoots out of Stiles, “Sure as shit does.” 

Allison's smile blooms, still sad around the edges but bright with humour. 

“Least he’s pretty,” she shrugs. Stiles rolls his eyes and Allison nudges his arm. “Isn’t he?” she needles. 

“Guess he’s alright looking.” 

She scoffs, clearly offended by his lack of enthusiasm. Stiles might have been more convinced of Isaac’s appeal if he didn’t pale in comparison to the man he worked for. If Scott’s got bad taste, then Stiles' is horrendous. 

Stiles misses his shif that night. Then he calls his boss a few uncouth names while getting a talking-to over the phone. Then they tell him not to bother showing up anymore. 

He hadn’t liked being in the humid pool area for hours anyway and had a general dislike for his feet being wet his entire shift. But. It was one of the few places he could still get a job. He should have sucked it up. 

Facedown on the couch he laments over it. For the past twenty minutes he’s mentally tried to compose an apology letter to the boss he mouthed off, but it contains too many iterations of ‘maybe if you weren’t a complete dipshit’ to pass as sincere. Scott knocks his feet to the floor and sits. 

Stiles isn’t truly caught up on the work thing. Honestly he’s nearly forgotten about it already. Something else clouds his mind in a fog of confusion. 

Why did Derek have him followed? Why did Derek do a single thing he’d ever done? Really, when it came down to it, who even was Derek? Stiles used to think he had a general idea of the man, but the longer he’s been in his life the more Stiles has realised he doesn’t have a single clue.

For every moment Stiles remembers Derek being the cold criminal he’d always imagined him to be, there’s a memory of Derek curled in a chair reading a fluffy romance novel. The soft songs he hummed around the house more often than not disney anthems. Those are the things that made Derek human.

Stiles had been too caught up in his own head to realise before, but now he realises there was never a benefit for Derek in making the deal he had with Stiles. By doing so he gained nothing but a houseguest and the wrath of the criminal underworld. Derek might have just wanted the excuse to take down the Blakes, but even then it’s a weak reason. If that were true, Derek could have done it without getting Stiles involved. 

Had Stiles been right to think the reason Derek kept him around was merely pity? Buyers remorse for the twink he’d used several years ago? Then why did Isaac insist Stiles mattered so much? What had Liam meant by “You’re Stiles”? 

Like the first time Stiles asked these questions to himself, they remain unanswered and annoyingly persistent. He’s nearly chewed his lip off overthinking them. 

A hand falls onto Stiles’ ankle to hold his foot still in a quick tickle attack. Stiles squawks and flails until he thinks to kick at Scott’s thigh with his other foot. He sits up, brooding thoughts vanished by the warm light in his friend’s eye. 

“I wasn’t going to say nothing ‘cause of your latest fiesta experience, but Danny is having a thing tomorrow.”

“A thing?” Stiles deadpans.

Scott sighs like he’s been caught out. “Well, okay. Knowing him it’ll be a big thing, everyone loves Danny, but even better yeah? You and me, free drinks and loud music?”

Scott leans his head back on the couch and pouts a little, looking utterly dejected. Stiles rolls his eyes at the dramatics. 

“Sure.” 

Honestly, Scott didn’t have to convince him. Quality bro time was exactly what he needed, and as much as playing xbox was awesome, so was getting smashed on someone else's dime. He hopes he’ll see someone there to take his mind off of a certain broody glare. 

When the next night rolls around Stiles tosses on jeans for the first time in a while, surprised they’re not as uncomfortable as he always thinks they’re going to be even if they’re miles away from the soft sweatpants he prefers. He wrestles into a loose white t-shirt to complete the classic look. There are bound to be at least twenty other guys wearing the exact same outfit, but unlike Allison he’s not particularly bothered enough to care. His hair takes a bit more time convincing to style into something inoffensive. By the time he’s rinsing the product off his hands Scott’s been idling on the curb for so long he’s actually cut the engine and parked. 

Stiles jumps into the passenger seat and tugs his flannel so it sits proper on his shoulders. Scott looks up from his phone with a raised eyebrow, but he can’t talk when Stiles can tell his friend spent just as long putting himself together based on how he’s tucked his black tshirt into black pants and smells of fancy cologne. 

Stiles points an accusing finger.

“I refuse to cab home so don’t you dare ditch me for a pull. Find a nice corner or the toilet, but if you run off to follow a trick home I will hunt you down and castrate you.”

Scott rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue which means Stiles was right about Scott’s reason for dressing up. He kinda wants to ask if Scott is more likely to pull a girl or guy tonight, but he also doesn’t want to open that can of worms right before they arrive at a party. Stiles also has a feeling he’ll be needing Scott to drag his sorry butt home if the night goes as planned, best to keep him in his favour. It’s not like Scott will get wasted, not when he’s such a stickler for training even in the off season. It’s more likely Scott will down an early drink or two and be clear headed enough to get them home at the end of the night. 

With every turn Scott makes Stiles’ nails sink into the threads of his jeans. His skin prickles with familiarity of the streets. He’s nearly convinced Scott’s playing some twisted joke on him until he turns left instead of right. They’re a few blocks away, but it’s damn well close enough that Stiles can practically see Derek’s place from where Scott parks. 

The house they aim for is a glass box glowing in the night, walls of windows doing nothing to hide the crush of people mingling around the place. There’s no pool, but the yard is practically the size of a soccer pitch with elaborate landscaping and decor to make up for it.

Stiles licks his lips. 

“How do you know this guy again?” 

“Friend of the teams, he’s really nice actually. Think you’d like him.” Scott says genuinely. 

He throws an arm around Stiles’ shoulders as they march up to the open front door. Scott has a habit of thinking everyone will get along with everyone else, something Stiles has always liked about him. His friend sees the best in people. Still, Stiles shrugs noncommittally, not in the mood to be chatting to new faces tonight unless it’s going to get him laid. The thought makes bubbles of nerves fizz around his gut. He tries to push them down by telling himself he’s young and attractive and he can hook up with anonymous strangers if he wants to. If he needs a few drinks to convince himself he wants to, that’s no one's business. 

Stiles wastes no time hunting down the kitchen and it’s counter full of shining bottles. 

“Cheers to life,” Stiles clicks his shot glass against Scott’s, a throwback to their wild teenage days before responsibilities and expectations loomed over them. 

“To life!” Scott repeats with a crinkly eyed grin. 

A few shots disappear down Stiles’ throat in a similar manner before he makes them both heavy handed drinks. Scott’s been snagged by a few of his friends from the lax team and Stiles tries not to be sour knowing he could have been one of them if he’d been a selfish asshat. He can only stand to hang off of Scott like a child waiting for a parent to finish chatting. He pats his friend on the back and heads off to find some fun, intuitively moving towards the music. 

Alcohol makes the music blaring in the back garden an inoffensive baseline and he jumps into the crowd moving to the beat. Besides a handful of Scott’s teammates and a few faces he’s seen at previous parties he’s crashed as Scott’s plus one, the crowd remains generally anonymous. It’s easy to get lost in. A rush moves through him. 

It could be the music, or the alcohol, but there’s something about the moment that makes him feel young and alive in that stereotypical way most advertisements try to sell you on. He tilts his head back and presses into the bodies crushed around him, reveling in the bliss of forgetting every moment that came before this and every moment that will happen after. Right now, in this second, he is just another drunk kid bouncing to the beat. 

When Stiles’ feet are sore and he’s panting from exertion he scans for Scott. The people are a little blurry but if he tries hard enough he can bring the faces into focus. From the edges of the crowd his mantra of ‘not Scott, not Scott, not Scott,’ is interrupted by a rather urgent ‘NOT Scott?’ 

Stiles’ eyes back pedal the scan in search of what threw him off. There he is. The tall kid with a trademark flush to his cheeks, chatting animatedly with wild hand gestures. His wide smile is tinder for Stiles’ rage. 

Stiles marches the straightest line he can manage through the people. He yanks the kid to turn him around, jutting his jaw and squaring his shoulders in an effort to be as intimidating as he can be while drunk. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“Stiles!” Liam’s bright eyes go wide with surprise, a smile stuck on his face like they’re good friends running into each other by happy accident when it’s not even the first time he’s been sent specifically to keep an eye on Stiles. “How do you know Danny? He’s so talented, don’t ya think? Lydia took me to one of his sets and we all hit it off, he’s a lot quieter than you’d assume for a dj, but dude knows how to make music.” 

Stiles is not having it. There’s no way it’s coincidence. 

“Is it Lydia or Derek sending you after me?”

Liam’s face changes so quickly Stiles takes a step back, shocked by the wickedness in his smile.

“I’m not here to watch you, but I wouldn’t be surprised if someone was.”

Stiles’ shoulders tighten. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“You made it clear you were there for the money. He’s put too much on you, and all you do is attract trouble.” Liam takes a self-satisfied pull from the beer bottle in his loose fingers. 

Jesus, this boy obviously spends too much time with Lydia if they’re gonna give him the same lecture.

“Don’t stick your nose in others' business.”

Liam narrows his eyes at Stiles. “Believe it or not, Derek’s my friend.” 

Stiles scoffs. People like Derek don’t have friends. They have associates and people they pay to do their dirty work. At least, that’s what Stiles wants to believe, because then he doesn’t feel too bad about hating him. It probably shows on his face because Liam just shakes his head and turns away, morphing into the crowd before Stiles can ask him if Derek’s ever made him cocoa. 

But the thing is, Stiles was never good at doing what he was told. And how dare Liam say Stiles was the one to attract trouble when trouble had a name and a stupid flashy car. The worst part is, Stiles is drunk. He’s drunk and as storms away from Liam he’s fucking livid, so he does an impulsive thing. 

Or he plans on doing it. First he needs to find Scott. 

It’s too late for Scott to still be buzzed enough to dance, too early for him to be lounging with the rest of his more sober teammates, but most likely just the right time for him to be sequestered in a corner with a lucky someone. Which means it’s the absolute worst time for Stiles to be tracking him down. Stiles manages to barge in on several groups of half dressed people going at it in the toilets and side rooms, but not one of them has the dimples of his best friend. 

He’s on his second scan of the back yard when he loses patience and decides it doesn’t matter anyway, he’ll be back before Scott knows he’s been gone. Probably. He could send a text, but the problem is he doesn’t know what he would say. He barely even knows what he’s doing. 

Stiles turns on his heels and ignores the patio doors leading inside, choosing to round the side of the house since it’s easier than trying to navigate the crush of people. He makes it halfway around in the semi-dark before he hears fighting. Not the loud yelling and punches thrown kind of fighting. More like the fierce hissing of the enraged trying not to make a scene. 

“-told you not to get involved.” 

“And leave her in the street to get a bullet in the head?” 

“How long until she tells, Scott? You really think you can keep lying to him?” 

Stiles’ heart races. He keeps taking small steps until two shadows pushed against a cement wall come into view. It confirms what his ears already told him. Scott and Isaac are standing so close together Stiles misses a loose step in the path and nearly eats shit right into the ground. He curses and catches himself just in time with a hand on the wall. When he looks up again the couple have jumped apart now they’ve noticed his presence. 

“You motherfucking-”

Scott places himself in front of Stiles before he can dodge around and get his hands on Isaac.

“Stiles, c’mon bro,”

“And you!” Stiles shoves Scott in the chest, “Don’t c’mon bro, me. What the fuck are you doing anywhere near him? Have you completely lost your mind?” Stiles yells. 

Scott tries to say something but Stiles is too distracted by Isaac still hovering over his shoulder and stupid fucking Liam’s voice saying he wouldn’t be surprised if Derek did still have someone on him. 

“You fat bastard, Lahey. I told you to fuck off.”

“Derek didn’t send me.”

“Likely fucking story.” 

Isaac’s golden eyes are on fire over Scott’s shoulder. “Derek didn’t send _me_.” 

Stiles’ face scrunches. Was he talking about Liam? He must… but Scott’s body turns rigid against Stiles’ shoving hands and Isaac keeps staring at him. Like it’s right in front of him. 

“You should ask your friend who picked her up. Who killed the men tailing her. Who handed her off to me.” 

Stiles’ body turns slack as he looks at his friend. Scott’s eyes are guilty. 

“We just want to keep you safe, Stiles… ”

“Don’t.”

Stiles backs away until Scott’s hands drop from his biceps. Angry tears make his face hot and he can’t look Scott in the face right now. Maybe not for a long time. 

“Don’t.” 

He repeats when Scott tries to move forward. He crosses his arms to hold himself together and side steps them both. Scott works for Derek. Has done probably since he was with Isaac, which was before Derek slept with him. Which meant Scott probably knew all about what Stiles used to do. It wasn’t Isaac following him around town in baseball caps and sunnies. It was Scott, right in plain sight. 

“Stiles!” Scott calls but Stiles keeps his head down. 

Over his shoulder he raises his middle finger. 

Stiles crams his fists into his jeans three blocks away, cursing himself for not grabbing his jacket before he left. It’s not actually cold out but it’s still not quite t-shirt weather either and the walk is taking him longer than he wanted it to. For a split second he thinks he’s lost. 

He isn’t. Stiles Stilinski does not get lost. He always knows exactly where he is, a left over habit from getting into cars with strange men. He catches the corner of a street sign and reassures himself. It only takes two more blocks that hold a single goliath property each before he’s storming up the correct drive. 

The gate is open and the door cracks before he gets to slam his fist on it, which he should have expected but still resents. Stiles should be allowed to play out his rage fueled fantasies after putting in this much effort for them. Now that he’s here, standing at Derek’s doorstep with the man himself, he falters. 

Derek opens his mouth to speak and that’s all it takes to flare every ounce of anger Stiles had been searching for. 

“What do you want from me?” Stiles demands. 

Derek closes his mouth and closes his face off into a stoic mask. Stiles growls in rage at the sight of it, feeling messy and unhinged in comparison and past giving a damn. 

“You! Everywhere I go I hear people on the street using those stupid nicknames you like or see copies of the trashy romance novels you’ve got tucked all over your house or-or Isaac. And _Scott?_ ”

Stiles’ hands fly through the air in a demonstration of just how everywhere Derek’s been, and when they drop he’s panting and tired and he just- he just-

“Come here,” Derek says quietly, like he’s asking someone to pass the salt. 

“I can’t… You’re everywhere.” Stiles whines, his own voice lowering as the fight slowly drains from him. 

Derek leans over him and waits. Stiles missed the moment he walked up the steps because suddenly they’re standing so close he can feel the heat of Derek’s body. When did they get so close? 

“Does Scott work for you?” Stiles blurts, because he finally wants to know everything. Needs to know. 

“I met Scott before you. It was a coincidence you were already friends, and when I discovered the connection I merely asked him to keep an eye on you. I was scared-” Derek clears his throat and Stiles’ eyes widen at the admission. Derek Hale had been scared. It was a revelation and a half. “I wasn’t sure what you’d do. I couldn’t be with you like I was, but I didn’t want something to happen to you in the meantime.” 

Stiles digests it. The sting of betrayal remains, but there’s a warm undercurrent to it. Something in him is stupidly and selfishly glad even Derek cared. 

“You told him to get me the job with Isaac?” 

“I did.” Derek confirms and Stiles had been right, that night on the couch. Derek really was just paying him out of one risky job to another. 

And that’s just perfect. Derek cared enough to have him shadowed, by his own best friend at that, but not enough to stick around. A loose curl hangs on Derek’s forehead as he looks down and Stiles might not be as angry as he is frustrated, and maybe he’s not as drunk as he thought, maybe he just wanted an excuse. Maybe he didn’t spend years looking over his shoulder in fear, maybe he was looking back with hope. 

“But you weren’t there.” Stiles blinks back embarrassing tears, and jesus, he can’t believe he’s going to fucking cry on the doorstep like this is some epic romance when it’s not. It’s just Stiles, shivering on the doorstep of a man he should have forgotten years ago. He ducks his head in hopes Derek won't see the ocean in his eyes. “It’s so stupid, I know what it was, but you said… you said you’d be there.” 

“The night I was with you my house was invaded by someone I’d trusted. The betrayal left me in a dangerous place, I wasn’t the person I wanted to be when I thought of you.” 

“Did you?” His voice is small, his hands flexing with the desperate wish he was wearing a sweater to hide away while asking such a vulnerable question. “Think of me?” 

“I do. Every time I wake I wish to be there, waking in that bed with you like I’d promised. I couldn’t let you go.”

There’s a jerk of Derek’s hand. Like he wants to touch but wont, and Stiles doesn’t get why, because a man like Derek does whatever he likes without restraint. But maybe not. Maybe Stiles’ had Derek wrong this entire time. 

Derek’s not egotistical or conceited, he’s withdrawn and private. Isolated like a prince locked in a castle of his own making. The thing is, Derek’s given him an out. Has done nothing but given Stiles clear scape goats since the night they met, yet here Stiles is, trying to act like his hand was forced when all Derek’s done is given him choices. 

Stiles keeps his head low and chews his bottom lip to stifle a sigh. It shouldn’t be so reassuring, it shouldn’t make tidal waves of blood rush through his ears to know Stiles wasn’t a fool for being so caught up on a single night. On a single man. 

“When we met again I recognized the hatred in your eyes.” Derek’s fingertips Stiles’ chin up with just the whisper of touch so their eyes meet, “I lost my chance.” 

A sound of protest slips through Stiles’ wide open lips with words caught on his tongue. Surely the man can see everything Stiles feels in his eyes now. Stiles can see it, the desire glowing behind his irises despite the bittersweet smile on his lips. He softly thumbs Stiles’ jaw. 

Stiles’ brow furrows when a piece of the puzzle in his mind doesn’t fit. 

“But in the hallway? You were the one who turned me down.” 

“I’ve learned from my mistakes, little fox. If you trust me to hold you again, I won't ever let go.”

Stiles leans into the touch like a wild animal knowingly stepping into a hunters trap. His lips catch in the calloused fingertip with every word. 

“My trust isn’t free,” he nips lightly at Derek’s thumb, unable to restrain himself, “but you’ve earned it.” 

Derek replaces his thumb with his lips in a claiming kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah yeah, I adjusted the end scene a bit. That thing needs work but....  
> Kinda got into a 'fuck feelings, bring on the smecs!" mood.  
> oops.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little rushed, but we got there.

Stiles doesn’t sleep with Derek that night. 

Or the night after. 

He curls on top of the luxury duvet in the master bedroom with Derek’s face inches away across the silk pillowcase. They whisper confessions of every choice they’ve made in their lives. The selfless and selfish. The lessons they’ve learned. What they want to do better. 

There are layers to Derek, too many to peel back in a few hours in the dark, but Stiles isn’t frightened by the mystery when he knows what’s important. He knows Derek is quick to be ruthless when threatened, knows just how far the man will go without remorse to protect what is his. He also knows beneath the trust issues and the sharp bite, Derek is lonely. 

Derek learns about Stiles too. 

“If you take care of everyone else,” Derek murmurs, “who takes care of you?” 

Stiles shrugs awkwardly while lying on his side. His dad loves him, but he’s too busy to be around all the time. His friends have lives of their own they’re busy living, full of drama Stiles is happy to help navigate, even if it means shutting away his own worries. He used to talk to his mother about that stuff, but since her death he’s smothered every anxiety he’s had deep out of sight. In that way, he realises, her death coincided with the premature death of his childhood where he could rely on others to make way for the self-sufficient version of him.

Stiles mumbles through a stilted version of his thoughts as they come to him. Derek’s frown grows as he listens and jittery nerves flip flop in Stiles’ stomach. He trails off with another awkward shrug. To some he’s young, but out in the world Stiles is an adult. It feels a bit naive to expect someone to look after him, so why is Derek looking at him like that?

Derek props himself on an elbow and leans in close. Like he’s a magnet reacting to it’s pair, Stiles moves in time with him to angle his shoulders at the same degree. He goes until he’s flat on his back, face tilted up to unhurriedly meet Derek’s in a dry brush of lips. It’s barely a kiss, better categorised as a moment of silent warmth and comfort. Derek doesn’t go far when they part and he keeps his eyes gliding over every inch of Stiles’ face. There’s nowhere for Stiles to hide under the blatant study, but he realises he doesn’t want to hide. For once he enjoys the overt feeling of being seen. All of him. 

“Let me take care of you.” 

Unlike last time he heard them, the words aren’t a demand. They’re an offer Stiles is given the chance to politely decline. Actions louder than words, he pushes forward to press tightly against Derek’s muscled body. 

“Please,” he manages just as Derek’s hand cradles his jaw. 

The kiss starts so slowly Stiles can feel the way the universe tilts on its axis in time with Derek shifting over him. Stiles’ vision is already so hazy in the dim bedroom he barely notices his eyes close as he sinks into the sheets. A hand of Derek’s drags along Stiles’ knit jumper and lands at his ribs, not heavy, just there. Moving with every shuttered little breath slipping between their lips. 

Stiles reaches with too much frenzy for the moment, not pausing his frantic fumble until his fingers finally find bare flesh. His palm flattens along the smooth pane of Derek’s stomach as the muscles there flex. Derek settles fully between the bracket of Stiles’ legs, a solid weight pressing Stiles into the sheets. Stiles slides his hand along the line of Derek’s waist band until it meets the dip of his spine and his other hand joins to gain enough leverage to pull himself into Derek’s chest. Their mouths are slick with each other as their tongues find an easy rhythm of push and pull. 

The dry friction of their clothing is a tease as Derek slowly grinds down. Stiles’ breath grows heavier, having to part from Derek’s lips every few seconds with small sounds as he sucks in air. Derek’s hand leaves his jaw and travels lower until it reaches the hem of Stiles’ thin t-shirt. Stiles pulls away only for a low growl to freeze him in place. 

His shock eases into something warm and squishy when he recognizes the look in Derek’s eye. Desire. Derek wants him so badly he doesn’t want to part even for a second, the realisation makes Stiles press his hips right into the man’s crotch with a smirk. A sharp curse comes from Derek and the moment Stiles manages to slip off his shirt he’s forcefully flipped. He’s still catching his bearings on all fours when rough hands tug at his jeans. Together they work them off, Stiles’ movements becoming nearly as impatient as Derek’s. 

“Still so eager, aren’t you sweetheart?” Derek’s words are accompanied by his firm hands stroking over Stiles’ body. They slide from his waist and over his hips to the globes of his ass, squeezing the soft skin. Stiles’ mouth goes dry. “Tell me.” 

“Want you,” Stiles rushes to get out, his face blazing with how quickly he’s been reduced to a mess. Derek’s still fully clothed, Stiles can feel his trousers rubbing softly against the back of his thighs, and here Stiles is fully naked and sweating with need. His arms shake as he hangs his head and rambles the truth. “Nothing as good, couldn’t get off without thinking about it, about you. Tried, thought of you while I touched myself.” 

Derek’s hands squeeze him harder, lingering on the sensitive jut of Stiles’ hip bones to the creamy curve of the back of his thighs. One hand leaves only to return in the form of a wet trail gliding from Stiles’ tailbone into the crease of his arse. 

“Yeah? Worked yourself open thinking about my fingers? Fucked yourself raw and still wanted more?” 

Stiles whines at the shock of crude words. At the truth of them. There have been others, a weak handful of hookup attempts Stiles’ not overly interested in thinking about. The closest Stiles ever got to replicating the overwhelming sensation of his first time had more to do with an alcohol-induced blackout haze than pleasure. 

“Still the perfect size, Stiles. Can’t stop staring at your curves and your perfect little arse. First thing I ever saw, thought of it everyday since. -- .” 

The sheer relief of knowing he’s been on Derek’s mind makes him weak. Stiles’s arms sloppily give way and his whimpering is cut short by the silk pillow under him. Derek’s fingers glide in an unyielding trail from the top of his crack and down to glance against his balls before they’re moving up again. Over and over across his clenching rim. Stiles tries to rock back every time the fingers skate over his centre, but Derek’s hand on his hip and sturdy clothed thighs against his own keep Stiles from moving. 

Stiles’ mouth opens with something close to begging on his lips, but he’s stopped before he can get a word out by the abrupt breach of a finger. Derek’s added more lube for a silky drag and he’s quick to work a second finger in. Stiles’ mind goes blank at the first real stretch. His body moves with the rhythm Derek sets, building into a pleasant burn until the shocking moment the fingers pull out. Like an apology the pads of them skim over his hole. 

“Derek,” Stiles whines at the teasing. 

He’s sunken lower into the sheets, his knees spreading obscenely until his belly is near flat on the mattress. Derek’s fingers languidly dip in once, twice, slow and deep before they pull away completely. 

“Still want it, darling?” 

“Always,” Stiles admits, and once it’s out he can’t hold it back, “Always want you, drives me fucking mad Derek, please,” he stuffs his face into the crease of his elbow to muffle his words but they continue to spill from his lips in a litany of pleas. 

“Look at you. Falling to pieces in my hands.” 

Stiles’ focus is shot, he can’t keep track of the words leaving his mouth when every nerve in his body is singing. Beneath his voice is the crinkle of a condom and agonizing anticipation builds in Stiles’ gut. Derek adjusts so his chest presses into Stiles’ back, his knees knocked next to Stiles’ and a muscled arm propping him by Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles can feel Derek’s heartbeat through his skin. 

The wet press of something blunt and heavy along his crack makes tears leak from squeezed shut eyes. The head of Derek’s dick rubs over him in broad strokes, making itself known by spreading a healthy amount of lube before pressing in. 

Stiles’ breath catches at the first push. It’s incomparable, the megre attempts of every fuck he’s had between now and the first time he had Derek’s dick in him. They have absolutely nothing on the encompassing way Derek’s ring covered hands command his hips, the feel of Derek’s ragged breath on the back of his neck, how the weight of him inside Stiles grows with every forceful inch. 

The pace stays slow, each thrust deep and controlled by Derek’s tense muscles. Gravity suspends itself. Stiles would float if not for the solid cage of Derek’s body keeping him grounded. 

Every second expands into a heartbeat, a breath, a pulse. 

With every rock of their bodies Stiles’ hips press down just enough for the bunched duvet to drag on the tacky head of his cock and teasingly down the shaft in a quick brush. It’s not enough to do anymore than make him frustrated. He tries to rut into it but Derek’s strong hand forces his hips to stay where they are. 

“Nuh-uh baby, just me. You can do it, be a good boy and come from the feel of me.”

Sheets bunch under Stiles’ sweaty palms, a desperate keen in the back of his throat at the thought of it. He’s never come like that before, but doesn’t doubt he can. Knows he will, because Derek told him to. 

Derek curses as Stiles clenches down. He quickens the roll of his hips and Stiles can feel the sweat slick slide of Derek’s muscled chest and flat stomach across his back like a scorching weighted blanket pinning him down. Stiles bites wetly at the pillow to muffle the panting whines pouring from him. 

Stiles’ dick throbs with neglect, aching at the feel of precum slowly sliding down to his balls and pooling in a dark wet spot beneath him. He braces his arms with enough force to press into Derek’s body in time with his thrusts, his mind blank with overwhelm and yet still craving more-more-more. Maybe he’s truly begging now, because the next thing he knows Derek’s growling in his ear. 

“Everything, I’ll give you everything.”

A thick hand presses against the back of Stiles’ neck. It ‘s nowhere near enough to cut oxygen, but he chokes on the surge of euphoria consuming him. With a shocked gasp he’s pushed over the edge. The hand leaves his neck while he pants through it. The heat of Derek’s body against his starts to pull away and no, Stiles hasn’t spent years getting off to the memory of Derek’s dick not to feel this. Clumsily he grabs backwards at Derek’s hip to keep him from pulling out, barely able to see through his wet eyelashes. 

“Inside, please, promised. You promised everything,” he frantically rambles even while Derek soothes a hand up his spine and presses solidly back into him. “Want- want you inside.” 

It’s not until Derek’s over him that he calms, soothed by the full body contact and Derek’s gentle words. He rocks just as he had in the beginning. Slow and deliberate. 

“So good for me, perfect, fucking beautiful,” Derek breathes heavily against his shoulder, his pace quickly losing rhythm as he fucks into Stiles’ pliant body. 

The jerk of his cock as he comes on a deep push makes Stiles’ eyes flutter shut in bliss. Derek rides through it with soft rolls until Stiles can feel the minute trembling of his overtaxed muscles. Even as soreness creeps in, Stiles makes a small noise of protest when Derek pulls out. 

Time bends without reason. Stiles flinches at the warm strokes of a damp flannel across his sensitive skin. He curls into the gentle hands pulling him into a strong chest. Idly he licks at the sweat collected in Derek’s collarbones, enjoying the way the arms wrapped around him tighten every time he leaves a little bite. 

Tender fingers comb back his sweaty fringe. Stiles takes in the pleasure-heavy slant of Derek’s eyelids, the way his pupils have swallowed the colour. His look is soft, but the angle of his eyebrows relays his seriousness. 

“I meant it, little fox,” Derek whispers. “Everything.” 

Stiles runs his nose along the curve of Derek’s neck. He presses quick kisses there, belly full of warmth. Most thoughts remain distant fleeting things he can’t solidify, but he knows this is what he wants. What he has always wanted. 

“Good, ‘cause ’m not going anywhere.”

Stiles loves his father. He also knows his dad well enough to insist he never, ever, discovers how Derek earns his money. It’s a lie he is willing to tell if it keeps everyone happy, and more importantly, alive. 

Even in the most conservative shirts Stiles has ever seen him wearing, Derek cuts a sharp figure against the weathered front porch of his childhood home. Stiles bounces on the creaky step to disperse some of his jitters. 

“Just remember, don’t-”

“Mention how we met.”

“And don’t-” 

“Bring up narcotics.”

“And definitely don’t-

“Discuss politics.” 

Stiles narrows his eyes at Derek’s twitching lips. Ha-fucking-ha, it must be really funny to not be the one introducing your father to the largest illegal-substance distributor in the state. Not that anyone has any proof of the fact. There’s a reason Derek’s still a free man, afterall. 

Stiles’ fidgety hands raise like they want to smooth over Derek’s collar, but he knows they’re already perfectly symmetrical, just like everything else about Derek. Derek catches his hands easily and lays them flat on his broad chest. 

“Things will be okay, little fox.” 

Stiles takes a deep breath. Then another in time with Derek’s slow rising lungs beneath his hands. Okay. Yes, Derek’s right. This will be okay. 

He wrenches open the door and marches in, not knocking because that would be weird. He might not live here anymore but this will always be a place he calls home. It’s a false start he realises because the living room and kitchen are bot empty. Stiles rolls his eyes at the smell in the air and strides into the kitchen. He spots his dad leaning over the grill on the other side of the patio doors. Obviously, anything was an excuse to eat meat for his dad. Stiles tugs Derek’s hand to bring him outside. 

“Dad, we talked about your cholesterol.” 

“No, you talked about it. I clearly recall not taking any part in the conversation,” his father retorts while flipping. 

Stiles rolls his eyes again, biting down on his lip because his dad is right. He hovers awkwardly with a poised Derek until finally his dad puts down the lid and turns to face them. His eyes go a little wide in surprise, maybe at the age or maybe at the face, he can’t be sure. Derek does have the kind of face that catches you off guard. 

Stiles watches closely as his father belatedly extends a hand. 

“Derek, I presume.” 

“Mr. Stilinski.” 

His dad’s lips thin out and he straightens to full height, like he’s been reminded that yes, he is the Dad, which means he’s in charge and Derek better not forget that. Stiles is just relieved that neither of their hands go white with the force of their grips. It lasts the proper double shake and not a second longer. Solid eye contact, nice. Avoided disaster so far. 

“And what was it you did, Derek?” 

Warning bells go off in Stiles’ brain. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, to pull his dad’s attention away. 

“Commercial real estate.” Derek answers smoothly without missing a beat, like an answer he’s given a thousand times. 

His dad narrows his eyes. Stiles holds his breath. This moment is a never-ending purgatory. 

“So tell me, Derek Hale,” his dad crosses his arms and oh fuck, he knows, how does he know? “do you watch baseball?” 

Stiles nearly passes out with relief. 

After a dinner full of steak and a surprising amount of laughter, Stiles and Derek trip into the mansion pressed shoulder to shoulder. Stiles barely pauses long enough to toe kick his shoes into the wall steadily gaining marks from every time he does that. He’s busy focusing on his task of undressing Derek, one stubborn button at a time. 

“Went well, then?” 

Stiles answers Derek with a sloppy kiss, focus still occupied on his fingers. Eventually they have to break off, Stiles with a frustrated growl and Derek with a chuckle as he takes over working the button free. 

“It was perfect, you're perfect,” Stiles insists as his hands find new homes on Derek’s pants. Now there’s a button he is more familiar with. 

They’re pressed against the entrance hallway, the one Stiles lined with posters of every classic horror and sci-fi film he’d grown up watching. Derek hadn’t minded so long as they were framed. Stiles is glad of that, because they definitely would have ripped a few from all the times one of them has been pressed into the wall like this. Clumsily they fumble their way until Derek’s patience runs out and he lifts Stiles to carry him straight to the bedroom.

Their closet door has been left open. A sea of flannel shirts overwhelms the hangers there, opposite fine silk shirts. On the ground Converse in every colour are toe to toe with polished oxfords. Beneath the room and sitting pretty in the garage is a Jeep Derek let Stiles paint blue. The man had only ever used it for off roading, but Stiles thinks he’s grown fond of it now that Stiles has properly commandeered it. 

It’s nice to have all of these things. But it’s just stuff. It has nothing on the swoop he feels as Derek’s hand smooths over his skin, or the feather light kisses trailing down his tummy until Derek’s mouth-

Yeah. None of it has anything on that. 

It keeps happening. The warmth he feels as they enjoy breakfast in the armchairs by the window, the crossword between them forgotten as Stiles goes on a tangent about obscure comic trivia. He talks until his tea turns cold and Derek silently makes him another with a fond smile. 

The afternoon they go to the batting cages Stiles pulls them out of there ten minutes after arriving. Derek thinks there’s something wrong, and he’s damn right there is. Somehow Derek is a master at handling a baseball bat and he didn’t think this was important information Stiles should have known months ago. The second Stiles gets them into the car he grabs Derek’s hand and presses it to his crotch. He lets Derek feel just how hard he is from the sight of Derek’s thick fingers wrapped around the bat and nailing the ball every time. 

Then Derek moves the place settings on the dining room table for dinner. No longer is Stiles sitting to the right of him, because Derek’s the one who moved. He sits across from Stiles on equal standing so they can see eye to eye. The moment his ass touches the chair Stiles can’t hold it back anymore. He knows exactly what this feeling is. 

“I love you.” 

Derek freezes. Slowly a smile blooms on his face, the fond one Stiles only gets to see in the mornings before Derek’s aware of what he’s doing. 

“As I love you, little fox.” 

Stiles’ cutlery clatters to the table as he shoves to his feet and into Derek’s lap. 

Their dinner goes cold that night. They’re forced by hungry stomachs to make instant noodles well after two in the morning, leaning against each other with stupid grins on their faces in nothing but their boxers. 

Stiles loves Allison. Truly, he does. But if she doesn’t watch out, Erica might take her place as his number one female friend. She’s brazenly confident and snarky as hell and has no qualms roasting Stiles like he’s a soft marshmallow. He’s finishing the last sip of his wonderful double vanilla latte when he realises just why he enjoys all these things about her. 

“You can never meet Derek,” he blurts. 

Erica wiggles her eyebrows. “Ooh, do tell. Is it because our combined beauty would kill those who glance upon us at the same time?” Stiles scrunches his face and Erica continues, “Come on, Allison told me about the essay you wrote on his chiseled abs.’ 

“Allison!”

“What? I thought it was adorable,” she coos, “You had reference figures and everything.” 

She leans into her girlfriend's arm over her shoulder while Erica laughs. Stiles has strong words on the tip of his tongue when a figure outside the cafe window freezes him. Oh no, oh no no no, why today of all days?

“Stiles.” 

“Derek,” he forces a thin smile up at the man. 

Derek furrows his brows but leans down and presses a kiss to Stiles’ cheek in greeting nonetheless. It’s a habit Stiles has never minded until now. Derek doesn’t usually pick him up when he’s seeing Allison, but sometimes he will if he’s free or in the area. Today of course just has to be the first day it’s happened while Erica's there. 

“Oh my god, you weren't kidding,” Erica gasps. Her wide-eyes are stuck on Derek and his hand braced possessively on Stiles’ neck. 

“Erica,” Allison chides and is completely ignored. 

Erica’s eyes move accusingly to Stiles with a wicked glint that makes him fear for his life. 

“I want to see the essay.” 

“What is she talking about?” Derek asks him, gently but not quiet enough for the girls not to hear. 

Stiles sinks his flaming face into his hands. Erica cackles, head back and wide mouthed. 

As he’s halfway out of the Cafe, the jingle of the bell above the door reminds him of his ringtone and the text he’d meant to reply to. Stiles digs out his phone and brings up Scott’s name. Tapping through emoji’s Stiles wishes his buddy good luck on the first game of the season. 

Things between them hadn’t been easy for a while. It took a long night full of manly tears and confessions to get over all the secrets and emotions. They woke up sleeping head to toes on the carpet with puffy eyes and a long overdue sense of relief. 

That night they suit up and drive past century old oaks because Derek still has a business to run and partnerships to keep. When they step out of the car Derek’s hand immediately finds the small of Stiles’ back. Stiles spent too long thinking accepting a steadying hand meant showing weakness. Now he settles against it, calmed by Derek’s touch through a suit lined with nothing but silk. He trusts Derek to guide him, and there’s no weakness in that. 

Their shoes echo along the empty marble halls. The music in the backyard is simple strings only loud enough to fill the space with warmth while the pool shimmers to amuse itself. Derek habitually dominates the curved sofa with both hands across the back of it. The sight of him in a strong suit makes Stiles unable to resist curling into his side and nibbling on his neck while they wait for their host. 

He’s nearly in Derek’s lap by the time a woman’s voice rings out. 

“What’s this?

Lydia round the fireplace to sit, Liam in tow. Both of their shirts are wrinkled near the waistline in a tell-tale sign of hasty retucking. Every strand of Lydia’s hair is impeccable, but the same can not be said of Liam’s wild locks. Stiles bites his bottom lip as his stomach swoops. 

Stiles loves his family, and he has a feeling it’s starting to grow.

**Author's Note:**

> Notes on Non-Con:  
> The touching mentioned involves groping, kissing, and manhandling. All while fully clothed.
> 
> -> For the beginning half of the fic Stiles is conflicted about his attraction to Derek. He doesn’t acknowledge it and frequently mentions how uncomfortable Derek’s touch is. Stiles does not explicitly say no or attempt to remove himself from Derek’s touch, but as we (should) all know, complicity is not consent!! Stiles’ discomfort stems from his physical attraction not aligning with his personal revulsion of Derek. As they get on better terms this resolves itself. (also Derek only touches him like this after Stiles has verbally agreed to go along with it as a part of a job, still not A+ behaviour, but alas) 
> 
> -> There is a scene where Stiles is accosted by Jackson. Some manhandling and groping, fully clothed and does not go farther than that before being interrupted. 
> 
> SPOILER -> In the past, 27yo Derek paid 19yo Stiles for intercourse and the occasion is recounted in detail. This was several years before the story takes place. Stiles is given multiple chances to refuse wherein he adamantly insists on sexing, but it’s still for money so kinda mute point. Actually I don’t know. Can paid sex ever be consensual? Hot topic. I won’t pretend to know the answer.
> 
> Comments and Kudos always appreciated <3 
> 
> Find me & this fic on tumblr!  
> https://zanniscaramouche.tumblr.com/tagged/Pretty-Venom


End file.
